Of Ill Winds and Weathered Storms
by RoeBoat
Summary: As the Captain is pulled into another adventure, he grows concerned that Tintin might go too far for a story. "If I've learned anything from that lad," Haddock said, taking another bite of his sandwich and talking with his mouth full, "it's that there are places where a question mark is simply unacceptable. And that's Tintin himself, I suppose." Friendship/bromance.
1. In which Haddock adds too much sugar

A/N: To be honest, I hadn't heard much about Tintin until the new movie came out. The cartoon was on Nickelodeon when I was little, but I don't remember if I watched it. When I was home from college for winter break, I took my little brother to the movies several times, and Tintin was the very last movie we crossed off our list the night before I went back. We both loved it, and when we came home, I downloaded all of the comics to my iPad.

I went back to school and promptly forgot all about Tintin, as I was occupied by my role in the musical, running the campus newspaper, and my schoolwork. It wasn't until some weeks later when I found myself doing a lot of traveling and waiting because of a family emergency that I read all of the comics. As much as I adored the new movie, I don't think I truly appreciated it until I read the original comics- the Tintin/Haddock friendship really struck a chord with me, and I completely fell in love with the characters, the setting, and the plot. I didn't have much to do through most of that whole situation but wait, so I started to write the fanfic you're about to read (despite the numerous other projects I should probably finish) on my iPad because it was the only thing I had handy.

Er... thank you iPad for keeping my textbooks, comics, and fanfics in one place? Leaving school abruptly in the middle of the week gave me little time to prepare.

Odd story, I know, but it's one of the weirdest fic-starting experiences I've had. Usually I write because I'm bored, or because I plan to. This one... This one just kind of happened. I didn't sit down to come up with a plot, trying to fit in the copious amounts of hurt!comfort driving me to write the story. I actually had a plot (and said hurt!comfort driven motivation)...

To get to the actual story, I'm not quite sure how long this will be. I'd originally intended for this to have just a few long-ish chapters, but I've decided to space them out to accommodate the alternating periods when I write a lot and when I don't. There will be a few interludes every few chapters where the some events of the established canon in the comics and some of my own made-up headcanon are related to the actual story. There's much more violence and hurt!comfort than is actually relevant to the plot, but it's here because it's dramatic and it's what I like to read and write. I have a horrible tendency to injure my favorite characters far more than is actually necessary, and poor Tintin won't get past the first chapter without getting beat up.

I don't write slash (though I read plenty), but you can probably infer some Tintin/Haddock with the established bromance if you squint. It's written purely platonic, but just like the source material, everything is always up for interpretation.

...and I'm never going to have another author's note this long again. I just thought some background might be nice. :-)

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><p><span>1. In which Haddock adds too much sugar<span>

He did have to give the boy credit.

It wasn't _entirely _Tintin's fault that he was in this situation. He didn't _try_ to buy his morning paper at the precise moment a gunman stealthily shot the man in line in front of him from behind a rubbish can.

It wasn't Tintin's fault that he was called into the police station to describe the man, and that his accurate observations led to the capture and imprisonment of said gunman.

It _especially _wasn't his fault that the gunman turned out to be a hitman for a prominent local gang, and that the ruling class of the organization was rather angry about the whole ordeal.

Tintin didn't ask to get involved in any of that, and Haddock couldn't blame him for just performing his civic duty.

But he did find a single flaw in the entire situation, and it was a big one—and of course, he wasted no time pointing it out.

Tintin wanted to _investigate_— he was interested now, and tracking down this gang, what they did, and where they operated was all he could focus on.

Captain Haddock managed to hold his tongue on the matter until one day at lunch when Tintin announced that he had a lead. Tintin had his flat in Brussels and Haddock had Marlinspike Hall to look after, but they made sure to have lunch together in some location or another at least once or twice a week.

At present, they were at Marlinspike, where Nestor had just served them a nice meal of tuna salad sandwiches. They'd moved on to coffee and biscuits, while Snowy occupied himself at Tintin's feet with the remnants of his master's sandwich.

"I don't care if you think you've found Atlantis," the Captain protested. "There's no reason you should look any further into this gang of ruffians. They're already cross with you for locking up their assassin, and I'm sure they won't hesitate to have you killed if they find out you're snooping where they think you shouldn't."

He took his irritation out on his coffee, which had much more sugar in it than he preferred simply because he'd been paying attention to his argument instead of his beverage. He stopped to take a sip and winced, immediately setting the cup back into his saucer. "Blistering…" he started to curse under his breath, leaning over and setting the cup on the ground for Snowy.

The dog, it seemed, had better sense, and merely sniffed at the cup before sticking his nose up in the air and returning to his sandwich.

Tintin listened and watched with quiet amusement, chuckling softly as he comfortably crossed his arms over his chest. "It's all I can think about," he admitted. "If I can find out the _when_ and the _where_, I most certainly can figure out the _who _and the _why_. And that's where I find my story, Captain. I can't pass that up."

"Yes, I'm well aware of your inability to pass up the chance to do anything dangerous," Haddock replied, lifting up his rejected coffee and abandoning it on the table in front of him while ignoring Tintin's rolling eyes. He turned his sights to the biscuits, placing one on his plate. "But I think you've forgotten something, lad."

The journalist raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"The _what_," Haddock explained. "Isn't it who, what, when, where, and why? You seem to be missing the _what_."

Tintin gave a knowing smile, and Haddock was immediately suspicious. "Well, I already have that. You have to have one of them to start out, and I have the _what_. That part was easy. Now I just have to follow it to find the others. Are you coming with me, Captain?"

Haddock now regretted stuffing his mouth with two biscuits at once. He took a moment to chew before brushing some crumbs out of his beard and replying. "Thundering typhoons, boy, haven't you heard anything I've said?"

"Hearing and listening are two different things, sir," Nestor interjected wryly as he cleared the table.

The Captain glared. "Yes, well, thank you for that, Nestor," he said bitterly.

"Yes, thank you for lunch, Nestor. It was quite good," added Tintin, barely containing his smirk.

Face turning red, Haddock seemed about to burst. "Well?"

"Yes, I've heard you, Captain. But I still intend on finding more about this. I had hoped you would join me, but it seems as if you prefer not to this time. That's quite alright," Tintin said, leaning over to scratch Snowy behind the ears. The dog certainly seemed happy, whether from his now fully devoured sandwich, Tintin's affection, or both.

Again, Haddock was suspicious, this time at Tintin's calm reaction. Tintin wasn't one to respond with anger, but he often had logic to back most of his assertions. His complacent attitude was a bit concerning. "You're going to let me off that easy, eh?"

Tintin shrugged, not taking his eyes off of Snowy. "There's no use debating it. I'm going. You're not. It's a win-win situation."

"Not quite," Haddock sighed again. "I wish you weren't going at all. Mark my words, Tintin—it won't end well."

Tintin looked up from his dog. "Because you're not coming with me, or because you don't think I can handle myself?" he asked, a bit of a harsh edge to the perpetual curiosity in his voice.

"See here, Tintin, that's not what I—"

"There was a time— before—when I could handle myself very well. I did it for a very long time, you know. I doubt much has changed," Tintin interrupted sharply. _Before I met you_, he didn't say. He straightened in his chair.

There was an awkward silence between them, something that rarely happened. Conversation flowed so naturally between boy and sea captain alike that quietness just didn't happen. When it did, it was because they were going about their own business, simply enjoying one another's company.

In this instance, Tintin seemed rather surprised at himself—not only did he rarely raise his voice, but he had also initiated the argument. Haddock just blinked at him, and even Snowy stopped wagging his tail under the table, clearly sensing something was amiss.

Realizing his rudeness, Tintin apologized. "I'm sorry," he said in a much calmer tone, giving a sheepish half smile of regret. "I didn't mean that. I'm rather irritable today, I'm afraid… I should probably leave. My train will be here soon."

"It's quite alright, Tintin. I understand," Haddock replied quietly, not entirely convinced. He was a bit hurt, if he was going to be honest, but this whole thing would blow over soon. Tintin would find his story or he wouldn't, and it was none of his concern.

"Yes, goodbye, Captain," Tintin said hastily. He threw on his trenchcoat, fixing the collar in one graceful motion as he slid it on his wiry body.

When Tintin left moments later, Snowy scampering behind him, Haddock wasn't sure if the bad taste left in his mouth was from their conversation or his spoiled coffee. He set out for the kitchen, hoping to find a bottle of Loch Lomond in the cabinet by the sink to make it go away.

* * *

><p>The proper reason Haddock took the train to Brussels that evening was to visit a friendly little corner tobacco shop near Tintin's flat, though he and Nestor both knew that he had plenty of tobacco to last him several more weeks. Some things, it seemed, never strayed far from his mind—like his stock of tobacco, and certain ginger reporters that often found themselves in danger.<p>

Somewhere between the brands of whiskey and sailor's knots filling his brain, Haddock knew that the shop closed at 18:00, and that catching a 21:30 train wouldn't give him the chance to purchase any tobacco in the near future. The entire errand seemed built on a lie, it seemed, whether to Nestor (who knew more than he let on, as always) or to himself.

Neither seemed important when he knocked on Tintin's door and received neither an invitation to come in nor any kind of reply at all.

He knocked again, slightly harder this time. "Tintin? I see the light under your door, lad. Won't you let me in?"

Getting increasingly frustrated by the lack of response, he tentatively tried to push open the door, gently twisting the doorknob.

It wasn't locked, which seemed odd in itself. Tintin usually locked the door for safety reasons, even when he was by himself in his flat. Stepping into Tintin's sitting room, he found that the light was coming from a small lamp on a table. His young friend was sprawled out on the couch nearby, his face stuffed in the cushions and right arm dangling off the side, limp fingers nearly touching the floor. He was still wearing the white shirt and blue jumper he had been wearing earlier for his visit to Marlinspike. Snowy, who Haddock assumed had been sleeping somewhere nearby, stretched in front of him with a large yawn.

Haddock sighed, relieved that his friend seemed to be all right. Perhaps the boy had returned from a rather tiring and eventful night, and was too exhausted to make it to his bedroom. He leaned down and pet the dog, who surprised him by lightly howling. "What is it, old boy?"

Snowy padded over to Tintin's sleeping form on the couch and sat down, still quietly whining. Haddock followed and knelt next to the couch, placing a hand on Tintin's shoulder. "Tintin," he whispered, trying to gently wake him up. "Sorry to bother you, lad, but… Billions of blistering blue barnacles, what did you do to yourself this time, Tintin?"

Upon closer inspection, he saw the beginnings of several bruises creeping up along the collar and cuffs of Tintin's white shirt, and quickly tried to turn the redhead over with as much gentleness as he could muster.

He felt his breath catch as he evaluated Tintin's condition. He seemed to have just returned from a severe beating, the telltale purple and blue marks dotting his pale skin. Tintin's left eye was puffy and dark, clearly turning into a black eye, rusty flakes of dried blood from a cut along his hairline stuck to his skin, and his bottom lip seemed to be split.

The sudden movement seemed to jostle Tintin awake. He groaned, a hand flying to his head. "Mmmm… Captain, what… What are you doing here?" he asked groggily. Haddock so rarely heard Tintin get caught off guard by anything that he found himself alarmed by his dazed response.

"I was in the neighborhood," he replied flatly, too focused on the current state of his friend to come up with a more creative or truthful variation on the lie. _I was here to make sure you didn't get yourself killed, and it seems as if I had the right idea_, the Captain thought.

"I didn't… I didn't hear you come in," Tintin said in an unusually small voice, yawning. He still didn't seem to be fully awake, which bothered the Captain because Tintin was usually a fairly light sleeper

Haddock stood up, putting his hands in his pockets. "No, you didn't," he sighed, frowning. "Now, do I have to take a page from your book and start asking questions, or are you going to fill in the blanks for me? Because there's a quiet 'I told you so' I've been longing to air out, and it seems as if I'm about to get the chance to use it," he grumbled, placing his hands on his hips.

Tintin slumped back along the arm of the couch, lazily throwing an arm over his eyes. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he moaned, his words turning into a childish whine. "I've a dreadful headache, and I'd like to go back to sleep."

"I suppose," Haddock replied with another sigh of disapproval. "But we should probably clean you up first. Bloodstains aren't easy to get out of furniture cushions, or so I've been told. By you, I believe."

Tintin made a sound of confusion, his hand still resting on his aching head. "Hmm? Oh, I didn't even realize…" he murmured as he glanced at his red tipped fingers, the wound not quite as dried as it had initially appeared.

"That's a bit concerning, lad," Haddock chided, finally voicing his worry. He helped Tintin sit up on the couch before wandering to the bathroom to find a first aid kit. He sat down next to Tintin and opened it, not surprised in the least that it was more than half empty.

In another ten minutes, he'd bandaged and cleaned what he could while trying to ignore the bruises and other injuries that he couldn't do anything about, as well as the quiet hisses and winces that Tintin kept trying to hide from him.

"You should probably rest," the Captain declared as he handed Tintin a bag of frozen ice for his eye. "It's getting late. Do you mind if I sleep in your chair here?" he asked, motioning to a comfortable armchair he often favored when he visited. "It's too late to return to Marlinspike for the night."

Tintin seemed to be nearly falling asleep again despite some discomfort from the ice on his eye, but answered quietly, "Of course. You can sleep in my bed, if you like. I'm perfectly happy sleeping here."

Haddock chuckled. "I can see that, but I think you should sleep in your own bed tonight, with the state you're in. Come on, then—let's make sure you can make it there."

Tintin gave a tired sigh of defeat. "I suppose."

Together, they made their way to the bedroom, where Tintin seemed capable enough of putting himself to bed, a fresh pair of pajamas folded on top of the blanket.

"Goodnight, Tintin. Wake me if you need anything," Haddock said, turning to leave.

"I'll be fine," Tintin insisted wearily, getting quietly frustrated because he wasn't nearly as convincing as he wanted to be. "But thank you for your help."

Haddock suspected that there was a long story and an apology behind that statement, but he didn't feel like pressing the boy just yet. Tintin's curiosity was catching, it seemed.

"Of course," he said, but then paused. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he inquired, but they both knew the real question: _Was it worth it?_

Tintin smiled, looking like himself for the first time since Haddock arrived. "Of course," he answered, and that was good enough for his Captain.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not sure how often this will be updated. Most of it is already written, but my schedule varies depending on what life throws at me-I often find it changes without much notice, so it could be days, weeks, or months. But this will be updated, if sporadically. I'm shooting for longer sections and spaces between updates instead of short passages that don't really flow.

All comments and reviews are appreciated. If you feel so inclined, let me know what you're thinking!


	2. In which Haddock interrupts breakfast

A/N: I apologize- this is not a new chapter, I'm afraid. I decided to make the chapters a bit shorter, so this was originally posted as second half of the first chapter. I am posting a new chapter at the same time to avoid confusion, but that's now chapter three. Confused yet? Don't be. Just read.

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><p><span>2. In which Haddock interrupts breakfast<span>

The following morning, Haddock found himself awake early enough to poke around Tintin's kitchen and find something for breakfast, Tintin himself still sleeping soundly with Snowy in his bedroom (the Captain had checked the moment he woke up).

It wasn't until he had polished off eggs and some toast that Tintin finally stirred, stretching his pajama-clad limbs as he wandered in. "Oh, you didn't have to make breakfast, Captain! You've done more than enough."

Haddock had some time to peruse Tintin's bookshelf, and had been busy enjoying an old adventure novel while he enjoyed his breakfast. He didn't respond right away, instead setting the book down on the table and staring at the redhead.

Tintin, who could be surprisingly oblivious to the world around him when food was involved, didn't notice that his friend was staring at him until he'd eaten half a piece of toast. It was only as he began shoveling eggs into his mouth that he saw that Haddock was looking at him intensely, clearly expecting something.

He swallowed, polite enough to avoid talking with food in his mouth. "What?"

"Are you ready to tell me what happened?" Haddock asked, rather pleased that he kept himself from shouting at the boy. They both knew that the enforced calmness in his voice wouldn't last long if he didn't get answers—and soon.

Tintin froze, egg-filled fork halfway to his mouth. He set it back on the plate. "Couldn't it wait until after breakfast?"

Haddock laughed a bit cynically, tossing a piece of crust to Snowy, who had been waiting expectantly under the table for any kind of scrap. "I think you've done enough stalling, lad. I know you're very interested in your breakfast there, but I think there's quite a story behind that lovely shiner gracing your face and I'd like to hear it."

The young journalist shrugged. "I suppose you're right," he sighed, pushing his half-eaten breakfast forward and out of his way.

"To start—how are you feeling? You gave me a right old scare last night, you know that? Not answering the door when I knocked, and when I finally let myself in, you looked… Like that!" the Captain exclaimed, his words catching on each other as he tripped over his thoughts.

"I'm fine. I've a pretty bad headache and I'm rather sore, but it's all nothing some aspirin can't fix. And I should probably keep icing this," he said, motioning to his black eye. "I _am_ awfully sorry for frightening you, though. When I returned last night, I was too tired to walk further than the front room."

Haddock crossed his arms. "I'm just glad you're safe, Tintin. Now, where did this all start?"

"I told you yesterday—I had a lead."

"Yes," the Captain recalled, "but you never actually mentioned what it was."

"Oh, well, I meant to, but…" Tintin trailed off, recalling their argument. They both winced. "Never mind. Anyway, from what I've researched, the gang I'm trailing has some sort of interest in importing museum pieces. Not necessarily anything specific, it would seem—the thefts have varied from impressionist paintings to ancient artifacts. Some kind of black market trading scheme, I figure, though I'm not quite sure yet."

"And where does your black eye come in?" Haddock inquired impatiently.

"I'm getting there, Captain. Anyway, I'd managed to connect them to various museum thefts over the last several weeks when I found out that a new traveling exhibit on medieval tapestries is opening here in Brussels next week. I did some more research, and I found out that the art was scheduled to arrive last night."

"And that brings you to…"

"Last night, of course. I went to the shipment, where I confronted the thieves," Tintin explained as simply as if he was describing a walk to the cinema.

"Ah, that explains the bruises," Haddock deduced, leaning back in the chair and placing his hands behind his head. He had just gotten comfortable when he felt the chair legs leave the floor and tip him backwards.

Tintin stood up quickly, wincing as he jostled his sore body. "Are you quite alright, Captain?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, clearly concerned.

Haddock waved a hand in the air. "Fine. Continue," he maintained as he picked up the chair and set it back down.

Instead of returning to his seat, Tintin cleared the plates from their abandoned breakfast. "You said 'That explains the bruises?' How did you come to that conclusion, Captain?"

The Captain shrugged with a guilty half smile. "The direct approach, while effective, laddie, isn't always the safest. Especially when you're involved."

Tintin turned from where he stood at the sink and frowned over his shoulder, choosing to ignore the Captain's cynical deduction—especially because he knew it was true. "Well, they didn't exactly take kindly to my interference. I fought them, and they left. I just… I didn't come out unscathed, that's all."

"I thought you said you found what you were looking for," Haddock reminded him, hoping that Tintin hadn't lied to him the previous night just to placate him.

His young friend sat down on the couch in the sitting room, motioning for the Captain to join him. "I did," he answered, as Haddock sat beside him. "I found out where they're headed next."

Tintin picked up a brochure Haddock hadn't noticed on the side table near the lamp. He'd left it on last night, not bothered a bit by the light. He wanted to be sure Tintin could find him in the night if he was needed.

The redhead handed it to him. "Posters? _Theatre_ posters?" Haddock exclaimed. "Blistering barnacles, what's that all about?"

"Art is art, Captain—and these are very old prints. Look—there's film posters too, and opera… Your favorite!" Tintin added with a sarcastic grin.

"A marked difference from medieval tapestries," Haddock pointed out, rolling his eyes.

Tintin set his head back on the couch, starting to feel his headache getting worse again. "I told you, there doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to their choices in merchandise. Anyway, there's to be an auction in two weeks, and I think our gang of thieves intends to make an appearance."

"Where'd you find this?"

He was answered by another embarrassed shrug. "It was in one of the thugs' pockets."

Haddock put his face in his hands. "I don't think I want to know how you worked that one out."

"Oh, it's nothing as interesting as all that."

They sat in silence for a bit, Haddock musing over the situation and Tintin trying to block out the pain behind his eyes. He closed them for a bit, and was so still and quiet that the Captain nearly thought he fell asleep again.

"I'm going, Captain," Tintin said suddenly, eyes snapping open.

Haddock wasn't surprised in the least at Tintin's intentions; he'd expected them from the beginning of this conversation. "I should think you would," he answered without much opinion behind his words.

"I'd like it if you went with me," Tintin stated gently. "If you wouldn't mind."

It wasn't a plea as much as a request. He'd expected that, and they were silent much more. He felt rather guilty about leaving Tintin by himself the night before, and staring at the bruises covering his body, he couldn't help but feel that he could have prevented them.

"Of course, lad. I'll go with you," Haddock agreed. "But you need to promise me something."

Tintin narrowed his eyes. "Is this about that 'I told you so' you were so eager to throw in last night? Captain, while I appreciate your concern, I—"

"Thundering typhoons, boy, this isn't about that!" Haddock shouted, finally fed up. "I know you can take care of yourself. I'm sorry for implying otherwise. I just… I don't like to see you hurt," he admitted.

Tintin shrugged. "It's all a part of the job."

Haddock chuckled cynically, very much wishing that Tintin kept some whiskey in his flat. As much as he could have used some the night before, he was positively desperate for alcohol by now—it had been since the afternoon before since his last drink, after all. "No it's not, Tintin, you and I both know that. Even if you're able to fight your own battles, it's nice to have someone there to take out the goon about to knock you out from behind."

The boy reporter sat up a little straighter. "How did you know?" he asked curiously, rubbing absentmindedly at a bump on the back of his head.

The Captain's laugh of a response sounded more like a bark, and Snowy's ears perked up. "You've a history of not looking over your shoulder, Tintin. It's gotten you in trouble before."

Tintin gaped at him, wide eyed, and his friend continued to laugh. "You're not the only one taking notes! Have some faith in your friends, lad."

They both laughed together for a bit, happy to be working as a team again. "And that promise you requested?" Tintin reminded him.

"Take a few days off," Haddock offered. "Come stay at Marlinspike Hall where Nestor and I can keep an eye on you. Rest up. Let those bruises heal. Stay out of trouble for a bit… Until you get us wrapped into some new adventure."

Tintin considered his request before nodding. "Alright."

Haddock shifted in his seat, getting comfortable. "I must say, lad, I thought it would take some more convincing."

"Oh, I think a nice rest would do me some good. Give me a chance to do some research in that nice library of yours," Tintin responded, a boyish smirk crossing his bruised face.

To be truthful, it scared the living daylights out of Haddock. His friend's injuries made him look younger and older all at once—like a child who had seen too much, his mind years beyond his small wiry body. It was in the freshness of curiosity in his eyes, but trimmed with a sort of tiredness that no one could protect him from. That was what he remembered most from their first meeting, a desire to defend, help, and protect this boy no matter what came their way. He wasn't sure when he'd made the decision to follow Tintin anywhere, or even if he'd made a decision at all. It just _happened_, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Ah, I knew you had something up your sleeve," he said, ignoring his worry. "Well, as long as you don't find any murderers popping out of the pages of my books, the library's yours for as long as you'd like."


	3. In which Haddock can't open the rum

3. In which Haddock can't open the rum

"Blistering Barnacles, Tintin! This is the third night in a row I've found you asleep in here. You've a bedroom for a reason, lad, and that's much more comfortable than those books you've been using as pillows."

Exasperated, Haddock watched as Tintin picked himself up from where he'd been slumped over a book. He leaned back and stretched, his back sore from hanging at an odd angle for so long.

The Captain couldn't help but snicker. "Oh, if you could see yourself right now, laddie…"

"I guess I fell asleep," Tintin laughed quietly, still very tired. "I found out quite a bit, though," he added with a yawn, motioning to a notebook with pages filled with notes.

Tintin's handwriting fascinated the Captain, as it seemed to change a bit depending on the situation. His tiny scrawl of shorthand for his stories was a stark contrast to the tidy print of the "Gone for a walk around the grounds, be back soon," notes he often left on the kitchen table. His current notebook was opened to a random page, the top filled with neat letters but wavering into thin wavy strokes as they went on. He wondered if Tintin had any difficulties retaining information as he tired, reflecting the way his handwriting got lazier and sloppier as sleep took over.

"You're exhausted. This was supposed to be a break, you know. Drooling all over my library isn't much better than running around looking for leads," Haddock chided, watching with an amused look as Tintin wiped his mouth with his forearm in response. "You're still going to tire yourself out either way. Now, off to bed with you—and if I find you here this late again, I'm banning you from the library."

Tintin raised an eyebrow, trying to assess how serious his host really was. "Really?" he asked as he stood up, stretching. "You'd do that?"

"If you don't take my advice and _sleep_. Snowy's been in your bed for hours. Maybe you'd do better to listen to _him_."

They laughed together, and the Captain couldn't help reflecting on how nice it was to have another person with him. It was ever so quiet at Marlinspike when Tintin wasn't around, especially late at night. Calculus was notorious for turning in early, but even he wasn't at Marlinspike right now, away at a conference in New York for the next several weeks.

He wasn't lonely, nor had he ever been. The sea had taught him to be relaxed and comfortable by himself. But that didn't mean that he didn't appreciate the presence of others, especially this lively young journalist who always seemed to pull him into some adventure or another.

The quietness was especially noticeable late at night like this, when he could wander around the hallways of his estate and find no one to talk to. Tintin was a comfort in that way, as he was usually up at all hours working on a story. Haddock found nothing more relaxing than hearing Tintin turn the pages of a book, scribble down notes, or type out a story on the typewriter. Tintin didn't mean to be noisy, and he wasn't really—but the sounds of his routines felt as much a part of Marlinspike as the front door.

That being said, the redhead was infuriating him right now. He'd slept the day away for the first two days of his visit, but he'd spent the time since shut up in the library, researching and taking notes. Because he really wasn't that interested (these things often bored him, he'd wait for Tintin to update him on the situation later), Haddock hadn't asked what Tintin was looking for, but from the dozens of circles and lines drawn in his notes, he expected that his young friend was looking for connections.

The cuts and bruises were slowly healing. Such injuries often looked worse before they got better, and the Captain had to hold in a yelp of concern when Tintin came down for lunch the second day (he'd slept through breakfast) and looked more purple and yellow than his usual freckled peachy cream. But days later, they were starting to fade, looking more like smudges and thumbprints of paint or grey charcoal. Tintin's black eye had been reduced to a dark shadow along his cheekbone, a dark "V" beneath his eye. It made him look rather thin, drawing attention to the sharp lines of his face. Haddock felt rather bad for interrupting breakfast that morning at Tintin's flat, and resolved to make sure that the journalist ate more.

The two walked up the stairs, quiet but not awkwardly silent. They didn't need to have constant conversation to communicate, especially when they were perfectly content as they were just now. It was the same when they'd both sit on the back porch and read for hours during the summer, quietly minding their own business while enjoying each other's company.

"You should move into Marlinspike, Tintin," the Captain said suddenly, making them both freeze in the upstairs hallway just before they were to turn and enter their respective bedrooms.

Tintin blinked, clearly not opposed to the suggestion but shocked by its sudden presence. "Where did that come from?"

Haddock shrugged. "You visit here enough. It can't be convenient or cost-effective to take the train so often. You can write your stories from here. I have more rooms than I know what to do with, and I could use the company."

"Professor Calculus will be back in a few weeks, and there's Nestor," Tintin reminded kindly, clearly more concerned for him than seriously considering the idea.

"No, I mean it. You should move in. There's a Catholic church in town. Brussels is only a short train ride away, and it's much safer here in Marlinspike than in the city," Haddock insisted.

Tintin put a hand on his hip. "Ah," he said, pointing in the air, "that's where this is coming from. I've lived on my own in Brussels for quite some time, and I've hardly ever—"

"Oh, no, laddie, don't try to go there!" Haddock exclaimed, laughing at the fact that Tintin seemed so put out over the whole thing. "You get yourself into more scrapes than you can remember. I'm not implying that you can't take care of yourself," he said, recalling Tintin's rather irritated reaction the last time _that_ subject came up, "I'm just saying that it'll be something less to worry about… No rent, either."

Tintin sighed, clearly too tired to argue or dwell on the matter that much. "You've made some good points, and I really don't have any major reasons to say no," he admitted, "but do you mind if I think it over for a bit?"

"Of course, lad. Take as much time as you need. But I want you to know that Marlinspike will be here. As will I," he added.

As they bid each other goodnight, he wondered if Tintin would seriously consider it or just shrug it off. As he changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth, the Captain decided to let it go for a bit if Tintin didn't respond. There wasn't any use pushing it if the boy didn't want to think about it—it would only annoy them both.

* * *

><p>"I've worked hard to get where I am," Tintin said suddenly, but they both knew that he was really saying <em>I'm this independent because I fought for it<em>, reflecting the quietness of a past he never really talked about.

The Captain wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he didn't.

They were on the train to Brussels a few days later, headed to the art auction. Haddock purposefully hadn't mentioned the prospect of Tintin moving to Marlinspike Hall, worried that Tintin would automatically say no if he was pestered.

He hadn't exactly expected Tintin himself to bring it up. He thought that maybe he'd already dismissed it, trying to avoid the subject for fear of explaining away something that would hurt feelings.

While he was perfectly comfortable throwing himself into the presence of drug smugglers, murderers, and mercenaries, Tintin had an awful habit of avoiding certain topics in his personal conversations that he thought were sensitive enough to make someone feel bad. Sometimes, the Captain found it quite funny, like when the boy was too shy to ask for a glass of water at a busy restaurant. Other times, when the conversation turned serious, it was absolutely maddening.

After a moment of dead silence, Tintin leaned forward, nearly whispering. "And people will talk, you know." His eyes were dark with the knowledge of a subject he didn't feel quite comfortable implying let alone discussing.

_Oh, what the press would give to see this side of you, Tintin!_ Haddock thought. They'd go crazy trying to get a glimpse of the awkward teenager behind the polished articles.

Of course, the Captain knew _exactly_ what to say to that, keeping his voice neutral without any effort. He'd heard the half-hidden whispers in town, people staring with quizzical nonsense glazing over their eyes.

"More than they already do? Thundering typhoons, lad… Talk like that follows us wherever we go," he laughed, more at the redness of embarrassment in Tintin's cheeks than at his place in the conversation. "What's one more thing to discuss? People let their imaginations get the best of them on a daily basis. That's nothing new, Tintin."

The journalist leaned back in his seat and turned his head to look out the window. Tintin pet his sleeping dog, who was wedged himself between his master's leg and the wall. He looked rather distant as he pondered over their situation. "I suppose you're right. Like I mentioned before… I can't quite think of a reason to say no, so—"

"I should wait until you think of one before I let you decline?" Haddock finished for him, rolling his eyes. He rummaged through his knapsack and pulled out a small bottle of rum, the type often found on airplanes. They were quite convenient to carry, he had decided long ago, and there were some conversations that needed a bit of spiking—including this one.

Tintin looked away from the window and frowned, both at the Captain's alcohol and cynical response. "There's a bit more to consider than just that, and you know it."

"Aye, but if you don't mind me saying so, I think there's no point in continuing this discussion if you've no intention of going anywhere with it," the Captain grumbled. He began to twist the top off the bottle, getting frustrated with the resistance it gave.

"Captain," he added after a moment of quiet, tilting his head and giving his friend a serious glance, "if I wasn't seriously considering it, I would have said no right away. I just need some time. You'll allow me that, won't you?"

"I suppose."

Later, Haddock was unable to recall if he abandoned the bottle of rum and put it away because the top was annoyingly stuck or because he felt he didn't need it any more.

Tintin smiled, and turned to look out the window once again as they pulled into Brussels.


	4. Interlude: The Stars

A/N: Every three or so chapters, I'm going to have an interlude like this. It'll be an unrelated situation with similar emotions... A one-shot flashback to a previous event.

To answer a question from a reader in a PM, yes, the conversation on the train implies exactly what you think it implies. Whether it confirms or denies it is up to you- personally, I change my mind depending on my mood, so I'm not about to make that decision for you!

Thank you so much to everyone who has added this to their favorites or reviewed. I appreciate every response, especially because there are weeks and months between my updates (it comes from being a rather busy student with an overactive imagination, I'm afraid).

* * *

><p><span>Interlude 1: The Stars<span>

Haddock knew all too well that it wasn't wise to split up—not on one of their adventures, at least. Sure, they could cover more ground on their own, or confuse their enemies. Sometimes, it even worked in their favor, like when one of them got caught and the other would pop up in the nick of time to take out the bad guys.

Yes, sometimes they were very lucky.

Other times—most of the time, if he was going to be truly honest—things did not work out so well.

Captain Haddock associated this kind of failure with Tintin bleeding in his arms, and any time he thought about it, he was reminded of a long, white scar along Tintin's abdomen.

It wasn't something he tried to think about, but sometimes when the boy scared him enough, he'd blink and the image would just be there. He'd quickly open his eyes, the fear only partially dissipated by the smile of the young man standing before him. He didn't ask for it, but it was becoming harder and harder to shake with each new danger, each new chance that Tintin wasn't coming home.

It was very late at night, or very early in the morning. It depended who you asked, he supposed. Maybe it was a glass half empty or half full situation. Did morning represent a fresh, clean day, or the end of the night? Was it a beginning or an end? Did the setting sun represent time wasted or spent wisely?

They had found themselves in the dark streets of Florence. The Captain decided that it was a very beautiful place during the day, all shiny art and marble with its leather vendors, museums, and churches.

By night, it became an entirely different place. As people lit the streets with their lamps and their smiles, it transformed into a bright haven of population. He thought of one of Castafiore's obnoxious dresses with their oversaturated sparkles, though the light reflecting off of the buildings was much prettier. Even though he never quite understood why the Italians crawled out to socialize late at night, Haddock admired their closeness.

People laughed and talked, excited by each other's company. He couldn't help but envy that subtle happiness, the joy that came from natural human interaction. The sea had been his life for so long, but it had built a strong brick wall between those who served it and the rest of the world. He was eternally grateful for the unexpected introduction of Tintin into his life, propelled through a window when he was at his worst. The boy made him feel more useful and lively than he'd ever thought possible.

Haddock had never regretted his career, but he certainly hadn't felt anything missing until he realized how bad things had gotten. Looking back, he thought of his life before Tintin as off course, as if his navigational skills had failed him some how and he'd ended up at an island paradise instead of a dirty shipping port like he was supposed to. Part of him felt guilty about the whole thing, as if he hadn't really deserved Tintin.

Now, they struggled to pull themselves through the large group of socializing Italians currently occupying the sidewalks and streets. It was very easy to hide in a crowd, as they blended right in. But things got complicated as the day grew older and slid into the early hours of Tuesday—or was it Wednesday? Haddock was rather amazed by how little he cared about simple things like time while on adventures with Tintin.

Light turned to dark, glitter becoming matte, and things suddenly felt very sinister in nature. Without the warmth of several hundred bodies calling out to each other, things became very cold.

Taking off after a drug dealer proved to be disastrous. They split up to follow the man, Tintin heading in one direction and Haddock sprinting around the other to head him off. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

He watched as Tintin disappeared around the corner. He paused, holding back as he waited for the right moment to jump into the action.

The Captain's heart froze as he heard the unmistakable sound of a violent altercation—flesh hitting flesh, grunts of effort and pain.

It was only when he thought he heard Tintin gasp that he sprinted forward, ready to fight anyone in his path, only to find that the redhead in question was running past him. Tintin grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, Snowy trailing at his heels.

"Run!" Tintin exclaimed, and before Haddock had a chance to react, he saw headlights speeding forward from around the corner.

"Where's our man?" Haddock yelled over the roar of the motor, running as fast as he could to keep up.

Tintin replied breathlessly, "Gone."

"Gone as in _dead_?"

"Gone as in the man_ in the car currently following us _ran him downand will do the same to us if—" Tintin gasped, the effort of simultaneously running and talking rapidly taking its toll on him, "if—we—don't—keep—_moving_!"

The journalist pulled his trenchcoat closer around himself as he ran, looking as if he was trying to keep out a chill. Haddock didn't have time to wonder why his young friend didn't just close it up instead of hugging the flaps of fabric around his body.

They turned another corner. "Keep running!" Tintin called out, and the Captain obliged him, wondering why he seemed to be concerned about his friend's stamina when he was the one who seemed to be losing steam.

The road ahead was shaped like a 'T,' a sturdy brick building straight ahead of them.

"Captain," Tintin hollered. "I have an idea!"

"You go right, and I'll go left?" Haddock inferred, picking up on the plan.

The headlights were gaining, shining ever brighter until they looked like a spotlight on the wall ahead.

"Yes! On the count of—"

But there wasn't time for that, so they just nodded at each other in understanding before sharply turning at the end of the road to their respective sides. Looking over his shoulder, Haddock saw that the car had crashed straight ahead into the wall. The lights stayed on, but he listened as the car's motor sputtered until it finally let out one last grinding cacophony of death.

He stayed still for a moment, catching his breath. _Now_ he could let himself feel tired. He panted to himself, turning to find Tintin.

"Is he… Is he dead?" Tintin called out from across the way, folding his arms over his chest as he walked towards the car. Snowy scampered next to him, running around in a circle.

"I don't know. I suppose you want me to check?" Haddock answered with a half-hearted laugh.

Tintin grinned and continued to walk forward. "Well, it would be helpful."

Haddock chuckled, and beat the young man to the car. He peaked through the wreck, and though he intended to reach out and take the driver's pulse, he quickly judged by the angle of his neck that the effort wouldn't be necessary.

"He's gone," the Captain noted, the laughter gone. Even if the man had cruel intentions, death wasn't meant to be a happy occasion.

But there wasn't a response. Haddock walked around the car in time to see Tintin lean against the wall nearby, supporting his weight with one hand on the brick before pulling it in and wrapping it around himself. "Tintin? What is it, Tintin?"

Instantly, the Captain felt all of the warmth drain from his face, and his cheeks felt as cold as the invisible hands currently wrapping themselves around his throat. He was more shaken by this new development that the shock of finding the dead man in the wreckage of the car.

Snowy sat still, barking at his master. The dog could tell that something was obviously wrong.

The redhead still didn't offer a response. His arms were still hugged tightly around himself, and his eyes were squeezed tight. Haddock immediately ran towards the boy, and as he got closer, realized that he was breathing rather heavily.

"Blistering barnacles, lad, what it is? Say something! Don't just—"

Tintin pitched forward, and Haddock only just made it to him in time to catch him. He grabbed him by the shoulders, the boy staggering closer to him before completely going limp.

"Tintin, Tintin! Please say something, my boy… What's wrong?" He was desperate now, almost yelling, just wanting to hear his young friend's voice. He didn't seem to be unconscious, but completely unresponsive. "What's wrong? Please, please tell me what's wrong…" He wasn't good in situations like this, where he had to be the calm one. He was _never_ the calm one. That was Tintin's job.

The Captain slowly lowered him to the ground, cradling the unnervingly still boy in his arms as he sat down against the wall. The urge to shake Tintin to get some sort of response was gone, replaced by a gentleness brought on by fear and abrupt alarm.

"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking.

Snowy whimpered next to them, licking Tintin's face.

Tintin moaned, opening his eyes. "Hurts…" he mumbled, his voice barely audible. His breaths were guarded and sharp, restricted by pain. Haddock instantly found himself somehow softening and tensing at the same time. He needed to find out what was wrong, but he didn't want to risk hurting Tintin.

He looked down, trying to find the problem. He went to move Tintin's coat out of the way, but froze when he saw that the edge of the fabric was stained dark red.

Haddock managed not to gasp, instead just taking a deep breath as he opened Tintin's trenchcoat to see the bloody mess underneath. "_Oh_," he breathed, not able to keep his emotions in check any longer. He looked closer, finding a long slash through Tintin's blue jumper and white shirt, culminating in a line of split red flesh along his abdomen.

Tintin closed his eyes again, sucking in air through his teeth. "I-I don't think it's… I don't think it's very deep. It just…" he winced. "It hurts."

Snowy sat quietly to the side, quaking, just wanting to be near. Haddock was grateful for the headlights throwing light against the wall, illuminating the area enough that he could see what kind of condition his young friend was in.

Haddock pulled up Tintin's shirts, trying to ignore his hisses of pain. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting the poor boy more. Fortunately, the wound didn't seem to be that deep—it looked to be more of a slash than a stab, so the wound was longer than it was deep. Tintin wouldn't die, but he needed medical assistance as soon as possible. The amount of blood worried the Captain more than anything else.

"I… I'm sorry," he apologized as he pressed down hard, trying to control the bleeding as he listened to Tintin's short gasps of pain. "I'm _so_ sorry," he kept saying over and over again as he felt Tintin's warm blood soak his fingertips, his hands, his sleeves… _Maybe it's worse than it looks…_

"He had—he had a knife," Tintin panted, trying to make his voice stronger as he told the story, and Haddock supposed that came from being a journalist. Even lying here bleeding, he wanted to sound as confident as he could while giving the facts so that there wouldn't be any doubt that he could be trusted.

_Oh, Tintin_, Haddock thought, _you don't have anything to prove to me. I just need you to stay with me._

"He swiped at me with it, and I don't… I don't think I realized that he hit me until we were running, when he had… When he already been run down… by the car," Tintin told him, his eyelids starting to droop as his energy faded.

The Captain straightened. He knew what he had to do. He wouldn't be able to fix this on his own, and the bleeding wasn't slowing at all. He needed to get Tintin to a hospital, and soon. "Keep talking, lad. Don't go to sleep. I need you to stay with me," he told him, his voice breaking again. "I'm… I'm so sorry if I hurt you," he whispered gently. "But I promise, everything is going to be fine. _You're _going to be fine, I promise."

Tintin gave him a weak smile. "I know. I-I didn't… ah!" he hissed, as Haddock lifted him in his arms, "I didn't feel anything until just… Just now," he said, trailing off again.

"No, no, keep talking, stay awake, Tintin. I know you're tired, lad, but you've got to stay awake," the Captain begged, hoping that his voice was calm enough to both reassure his hurt friend and keep his emotions in check. "_Stay with me_."

He slowly stood up, resting Tintin's head on his shoulder and draping his legs over his arm. Tintin didn't react, and Haddock wasn't sure if that was because he'd been gentle enough or if Tintin was slipping away. He felt the boy grow even limper in his arms, and unconsciously held him that much closer to his chest.

"Tintin?" he said, hoping the boy could still hear him. "Lad?"

He didn't get a response right away, so he started walking, knowing that his friend was losing blood fast and needed medical attention. Snowy walked at his heels, and he felt almost felt like he was betraying his friend by having his dog as a shadow.

After a moment, he heard a small voice from his neck. "I didn't want to worry you," Tintin admitted quietly, his eyes closed. As he spoke, his warm breath touched the Captain's skin like a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Was afraid… was afraid if we stopped… He'd hurt you. I'm not sure what I'd… I don't know what I'd do if you were hurt."

The Captain thought back to before, when Tintin hugged his jacket tight around him. Everything suddenly clicked. _He was trying to hide it so we wouldn't stop running…_ Haddock realized.

"But he didn't," the Captain told him, trying to put on a brave face. He lifted a blood-stained hand and stroked Tintin's hair, trying to comfort them both. "It's fine. I'm fine. You're going to be fine. Just… Just stay awake a little longer. Can you do that for me, lad? Tintin?"

Tintin's sharp breaths evened out a bit more, and Haddock realized that the boy was finally unconscious. Part of him was relieved because he knew that Tintin wasn't in pain at the moment, but he was terrified that he wouldn't wake up.

The headlights shining on the wall behind him snapped off suddenly, and he suddenly felt very alone. It was very dark and quiet, and all of a sudden, the Captain couldn't remember a single moment in his life when he'd been more petrified. Not when his mother died, not when he suddenly found himself the commanding officer of a ship much too young, not when he'd faced murders, thieves, and other violent men.

Once, he'd been unnerved that a teenage boy could enter his life and turn everything upside down. He'd been set in his ways, a defeated alcoholic sailor with nothing to further him. But Tintin had changed all that within moments. He'd never trusted someone so quickly before, and he'd surprised himself.

The knowledge that Tintin might be dying because he wanted to keep Haddock safe was more than he could bear. But knowing that it might be too late—that he could try his hardest and still not be able to save Tintin—that was terrifying.

Maybe he'd survive today, but what about their next adventure?

Haddock looked up, and felt a bit better when he saw the faint lights of the city square reflected in the sky. He could get help there. The stars looked like tiny white pinpoints on the dark sky, and somehow, he felt as if they were a lifeline, guiding him to find help for Tintin.

"Looks like it's just you, me, and the stars, lad," he whispered, and he somehow, he knew that everything would be okay.

And it would be, after a blood transfusion, thirty stitches, and two days in hospital. It would have been longer, but Tintin wouldn't have it and Haddock couldn't convince him otherwise. No internal damage, just one long laceration and significant blood loss.

Everything was as it had been before—but there was always that fear, for both of them, that the world would take the other too soon.


	5. In which Haddock takes a nap

4. In which Haddock takes a nap

"We're rather early, aren't we?" the Captain grumbled, crossing his arms in protest. He hoped, as he often did, that people saw his movements as deliberate as they were meant. Archibald Haddock did not do anything he did not want to, and he was wordlessly making it clear to his young friend that he only accompanied him for moral support. And because Tintin knew him very well indeed, he ignored Haddock's argument and was instead quietly grateful for his presence.

They were sitting in the very middle row in the orchestra section of a large theatre, currently made up as an impromptu auction house. The large neon marquee outside was turned off, but Haddock could still make out two bold words despite the glare of the afternoon sun: "The Radieux."

"Radiant" at night, maybe, but not quite as stunning by the light of day, especially when it masqueraded as an auction house. The large velvet curtains were drawn, and a large podium was placed slightly off-center on the stage next to an empty rectangular platform. If Haddock leaned over just so and ungracefully bumped into Tintin's shoulder (which he wouldn't), he might peek through the small space between the curtains and see many large items covered in sheets.

Tintin shrugged. "I like being early."

Haddock's irritation at being unnecessarily early, while not completely gone, definitely waned in favor of worry. "Are you sure you're up for this, Tintin?" he asked, turning to look at the boy. He was almost completely healed saved for the lightest gray residue of a bruise remaining from his black eye. It was the small slump in Tintin's shoulders that worried the Captain, a weariness that a few weeks resting in the countryside should have cured.

"Of course," Tintin answered complacently, straightening in his chair to make a point. "Why wouldn't I be?" he added, his voice significantly brighter than before.

"I was just making sure, lad," the Captain answered quietly. Haddock sighed and instantly wished that he hadn't checked his bag at the door. The rum was calling to him—it would have been a welcome distraction from his boredom.

He looked at Snowy, who was sleeping soundly in Tintin's arms. "How can he sleep with all this noise?"

Tintin nodded in agreement, rolling his eyes at the excessive clamor people brought on as they shuffled into their seats. The auction had attracted some uppity folk, those who could afford spending money on art for its collectability rather than its expression or sentimental value. There were also some middle class workers mixed in here and there, but the crowd was mostly comprised of men with tailored suits and women with pristinely pressed dresses.

"He's as bored as you are, it would seem," Tintin said cheekily, and Snowy let out a light snore as if to agree.

They laughed together, the movement waking an irritated-looking Snowy. He glanced at them with a tiny growl of annoyed disapproval before resting his head down again and falling asleep.

"Well," Haddock concluded, "he has the right idea." He took off his hat and tipped it into his face to block the dimmed lights, as if he intended to take a nap. "Wake me up when it's over."

The redhead pulled the hat off of his face and tossed it in his lap. "No, Captain. I need your eyes to help me look for anything suspicious," he explained with a smile.

The Captain looked at his hat, contemplating its age as he fingered the frayed, worn fabric. How had it survived all of their many adventures? They'd been shot at, chased, been to the moon and back, and yet this one hat remained intact. _Fascinating_, he thought. "What would be suspicious here?"

"Oh, I don't know. Anything out of the ordinary, really. Excuse me, miss?" Tintin beckoned, waving down a young woman who happened to be walking down the aisle next to them to find her seat. "That's a very beautiful necklace you're wearing."

The Captain leaned forward to get a look at it, ignoring Snowy's tiny whine as he elbowed him in the side. He supposed it was pretty as far as jewelry went, but he didn't know much about that sort of thing. A white woman on a background of mint green—a cameo, he supposed. His mother had often worn a similar pink necklace for special occasions. He still had it, he remembered, in a box in the cellar with all of her possessions. Maybe Tintin would have a use for it one day, if he found a young lady to settle down with.

The lad was getting older, he supposed… What would he do if the boy decided to up and leave him? Go back to the sea, or live out his days as a tired, bored old man at Marlinspike? He looked at Tintin fondly, ever grateful for the young man's presence in his life.

The lady spoke, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Oh, this? This was my mother-in-law's. My husband gave it to me as an engagement present. I'd always admired it. It's old fashioned, I suppose, but I thought it was pretty."

"It's very nice," Tintin said, smiling and waving as the woman made her way.

Haddock raised an eyebrow. "You call that out of the ordinary? Seems like a family heirloom to me."

The journalist laughed. "Oh, it was. I was just people watching."

"People watching?" the Captain asked.

"Seeing all of the things that people are doing and than making up a story to go with it. Sometimes I ask questions, just to get the whole scope of the thing. Like that woman, for instance. She said it was given to her as an engagement present. What if she's living in her mother-in-law's shadow? What if her husband expects her to be a copy of his mother, and she's struggling to comply? What if the necklace represents all that she is expected to be?"

The boy chattered on about his imaginary story, and the Captain couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

"It's something to do when you're bored, at least," Tintin added with a smile.

"So you're admitting that you're bored, too?" Haddock asked pointedly, teasing his friend. "That we're here too early?"

"No. I'm not bored," Tintin laughed. "I'm people watching."

* * *

><p>"Nothing," Tintin sighed. He didn't quite sound defeated, just frustrated by the lack of progress. "Absolutely nothing."<p>

Haddock slowly blinked his sleep weary eyes, only just waking up. Despite his best efforts not to (which meant that he hadn't tried much at all), he had fallen asleep shortly after the auctioneer announced the third or fourth lot, an original poster from a very old production of _Tristan and Isolde_. He vaguely recalled trying to decipher the plot of the Wagner opera, deciding that he had little time for love potions, arranged marriages, and silly unrequited love just before he fell asleep. He didn't care for the story or the genre.

"I assume nothing came out of your people watching?" the Captain yawned. Without opening his eyes, he stretched out his arms, nearly smacking Tintin in the face.

Tintin rolled his eyes. "No. Though it might've been easier had you decided to reschedule your afternoon nap for a more convenient time and place," he said coolly, certainly not angry but slightly exasperated by his older friend's very typical behavior.

Haddock stood up to let a portly lady squeeze her way by his legs and out into the aisle. He must have slept for longer than he had originally thought—he was rather stiff. He wanted to walk around for a bit. Maybe he'd walk Tintin back to his flat before catching the evening train back to Marlinspike. He didn't look forward to the train ride home because it required more sitting. The Captain felt rather restless, and hoped that Tintin would soon be finished with this nonsense.

"Sorry, lad," he mumbled, putting his hat back on his scruffy dark hair and turning to face Tintin. "These things bore me to tears."

He wasn't actually sorry at all, but Tintin didn't need to know that.

The redhead pushed himself up and out of his seat and set a stretching Snowy onto the ground at his feet before crossing his arms. "No, you're not. Don't apologize if you don't really mean it, Captain. If there's one thing I have very little tolerance for, it's…"

Something seemed to catch the young man's eye, for he paused and looked intently over Haddock's shoulder. "…insincerity," he finished.

Haddock turned around to see Tintin watching the girl with the cameo he had spoken to earlier. He tilted his head to the side, watching her closely. Seeing his master's mood shift, Snowy took on a similar curious position.

The young woman was walking up the side stairs and on to the stage, reaching for the clasp to remove her necklace with fingers that the Captain hadn't realized were covered in dirt until now.

Out of the ordinary, indeed.

She slid through the divide in the heavy velvet curtains, and before the Captain even had time to blink, Tintin had taken off after her.

"Wait here," he hissed as he propelled himself forward, Snowy at his heals.

Well, that simply wouldn't do, the Captain decided. Finally, something exciting was happening, and he'd be damned if he missed it—and if he'd leave Tintin to fend for himself again.

"No," Haddock snapped back, already moving behind the boy. "I'm coming with you," he insisted.

"Fine," Tintin agreed, not wasting energy to argue or even sound irritated by his friend. "Then follow me and stay quiet; I'll explain later."

Tintin shadowed the girl behind the curtain, silently counting to ten (Haddock could tell by the way he seemed to focusing rather intently on each breath he took) before walking backstage. Haddock followed, but quickly found himself whirled into a large heavy object, slamming into it with a hollow crash. He straightened himself out, and found that he and Tintin seemed to be hiding behind a large wooden tower, painted to look as though it were made of stone and covered with ivy and climbing roses.

"Blistering barnacles, Tintin, won't you tell—"

"Shhh!" Tintin hushed him. "Later." He put a finger to his lips and mouthed, "Just listen."

* * *

><p>AN: There will be a bit of lapse in updates for a bit, as my semester's ending, the show I'm in opened last night, and I completely changed the ending of this story (I need to adjust the rest to agree.) Thank you very much for all the feedback so far. I appreciate each and every review, so keep 'em coming!


	6. In which Haddock laughs at sex

5. in which Haddock laughs at sex

"This is a new look for you. I quite like it," a young masculine voice commented nearby.

Haddock turned his head a bit more to look, grateful that he was a bit taller than Tintin so that he could see around the corner of the tower, which seemed to be a giant set piece. This backstage view of the theatre was a new and unfamiliar place to him; he was used to the audience's perspective. Tables of this and that, shelves of tools, and facades of set pieces presented a very different image. The Captain felt like a child discovering the fictional nature of bedtime fairy tales— somehow, the magic had changed.

The voice belonged to a fellow sitting casually on an old wooden desk. His hands were folded in his lap, and he'd obviously been patiently waiting for the girl. Haddock recognized the signs of a hard worker down on his luck from the young man's unsoiled but worn attire and calloused fingers. The fabric of his cotton shirt was freshly pressed and cleaned, but thinned from use. Strands of messy brown hair were hidden beneath a gray cabbie hat, and his clean shaven face and rosy cheeks gave Haddock the clues to place him around twenty or so years old. He seemed a decent sort of boy, determined to make a good appearance even if it was beyond his means.

"I'm glad you're amused," the woman responded, and the Captain immediately noticed that her natural speaking tone was much lower than the sweet friendliness she had feigned in her earlier conversation with Tintin. Still feminine, but with a trace of a sultry alto.

He hadn't paid her much attention before, mistakenly believing her to be just another well-off young woman. Looking closely at the little details like the dirt on her fingers and the freckles across her nose, he realized that she was quite a bit younger than she had presented herself earlier—and that she wasn't quite what she seemed. She acted the part of a refined young lady, but her greasy black hair and sunburned décolletage told a different story.

There seemed to be quite a lot of deception in the room—this poor, clean-cut boy with the street-worn, dirty young girl. Not a bit of it made sense, so Haddock continued to listen with Tintin.

"I, for one cannot _wait_ to get out of this dress," she continued as she placed the necklace in the boy's hands. "Next time Papa wants me to spy on the competition, I'm going to insist that he pick a dress that _isn't_ made of heavy navy wool. At least not for this time of year. And that dreadfully heavy necklace! You know, someone actually stopped me to tell me it was pretty?" She laughed, and Haddock couldn't help but feel that there was something sinister behind it.

The young man raised an eyebrow. "Well, what's stopping you from taking off the dress?" he asked coyly, and the Captain sensed Tintin trying not to laugh uncomfortably.

Sure enough, the woman slipped off the dress, revealing a lacy black slip. She yanked the pins out of her dark hair, letting it hang loose over her shoulders in dirty curls. Haddock realized that she wasn't a woman at all—a girl, really, as she couldn't have been a day over sixteen.

"Better?" she inquired, stepping towards the boy and taking his hands.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, running his worn hands through her hair. "Much better."

She hopped up next to him on the desk, crossing her legs, and the Captain saw Tintin's shoulders relax a bit.

Tintin's uncomfortable embarrassment around sex and all related topics was incredibly amusing, Haddock decided. Always good for a laugh— but this was clearly not the time or the place.

"Did you learn anything new?" the boy asked, leaning towards her.

The girl sighed. "Other than the fact that auctions are the most boring thing in the entire world? No. But I think Papa's right," she went on, playing with the hem of her slip. "I think they're selling things off to get out of the business."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so. But I didn't find out enough to prove his _real_ theory."

The boy frowned at her. "You're not going to tell me what it is, are you?"

"Of course not, Denny," she answered with a smirk. "Where's the fun if I tell you everything?"

_Ah,_ Haddock mentally noted. _A name._

"Well, it might get me into good favors with your father if I could help a bit more than just waiting for you to accomplish… Whatever it is you're doing," Denny said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Papa already loves you as much as I do. He's known you your entire life."

"He doesn't love me enough to let me direct a show next season," he sighed. "Irene, are you sure you can't talk to him?"

"He said he'd think about it. He's got too much on his mind right now, with my brother so ill all the time and the money problems. I'm sure you're aware—it costs quite a bit to run a theatre," Irene reasoned.

Denny put his head in his hands. "I've been working at the Melpomene since I was ten, and running around backstage for as long as I can remember, since my brother and cousin worked there. The theatre's the only place I've ever wanted to be," he confessed.

Irene put a kind hand on his arm. "I know exactly how you feel. I'm sorry I can't tell you more, but I will when the time is right, I promise. I just… Papa's really suspicious of everything going on here at the Radieux."

"Does he know about the… um, operation?" Denny asked, and Haddock was starting to think that Irene wore the pants in their relationship. Denny seemed to be on edge. He wasn't sure whether the tiny quiver of a shake in the young man's jaw was from love or fear.

"I don't think so," Irene responded. "But then again, we haven't exactly been organized with the whole thing, so he's bound to find out eventually." She sounded like she didn't care much, like all of this was a game to her.

Definitely older and more mature, Denny was taken aback. "Of course we've been organized!" he shouted, and Irene motioned for him to quiet down. "_I've_ been organized. Getting that gang to do the dirty work instead of pulling our stagehands out of the theatre. Keeping the best loot for props and selling the rest for money."

Irene turned to face him completely, looking almost concerned. "He's going to find out eventually. When the wrong painting turns up in the workshop, or the numbers don't balance in the books."

"That's why Mickey does the books," Denny insisted. "Because he can explain everything away. Your father listens to everything he says. He'd trust Mickey with anything."

"Mickey's _sick_, Denny. He's not getting better," she said reverently, and the Captain realized that Mickey was the very ill brother she had spoken of earlier. She sounded a little wistful and sad, finally serious. "Just… Be careful. I don't trust your street contacts. They've been much too public with their business."

Denny nodded in agreement. "I know. They've attracted a bit of attention to themselves, I'll give them that. Especially that business with that reporter—Tintin."

Haddock saw Tintin straighten at the sound of his moniker, both of them realizing at once where things were going to go.

The Captain turned to leave, figuring that this was probably the best time for them to escape without getting caught. But Tintin grabbed his older friend's wrist lightly, holding his other hand up to stop him from moving.

"Just wait," Tintin mouthed, and the Captain obeyed, settling back on his heels.

"Really? I just saw him out at the auction. He was the one who complimented my necklace."

Denny paled. "What's he doing here? I can't imagine he's all that interested in art. Unless…"

"What?" Irene asked, resting her face in her hands.

"Unless he suspects something."

"What is there to suspect?"

"The same thing your father suspects…" Denny trailed off, stroking his beardless chin as he thought deeply.

Irene shook her head. "Not a chance. I doubt the famous Tintin cares about what goes on between two competing theatres. I think it's more likely he's followed that no-good gang's trail here—and if that's true, then it's up to you to get him off. I told you, they've been much too public with their affairs. We can't afford negative attention."

"I can't imagine he found much here," Denny said, and he sounded a bit relieved. "I'd originally arranged for some… assistance today, but—"

"Oh, Denny, you didn't!" Irene cried. "The Radieux is too close. They'd know we stole from them in an instant!"

"Well, yes, that's why I thought better of it. Especially when I found out you'd be here—I wanted to keep an eye on you. That's why I waited backstage."

Irene sighed, and put her head on his shoulder. "Honestly, Denny, you can be so dense sometimes. But I guess that's why I love you."

"Why?"

She smiled sweetly. "Because I'll always know I'm smarter than you, that I'm one step ahead. Now, let's go get ready for this stupid dinner—Papa's expecting us a half hour early, you know."

Tintin nudged Haddock in the side with his elbow, and whispered, "Now."

* * *

><p>They slipped out a side door. The Captain rubbed his side, sore because Tintin's elbows were <em>sharp<em>, so he felt it even through his heavy blue jersey.

"What," Haddock asked, crossing his arms, "was _that_ all about?"

Looking at his watch, he saw that if he caught a train in the next half hour or so, he'd be back at Marlinspike in time for his favorite radio program. He didn't miss Michael Archer's nightly talk show if he could help it. He was supposed to have a famous mystery writer on the show that evening to talk about their controversial new bestseller, and the Captain was very eager to hear what Archer had to say on the matter. He had an offbeat, comical kind of sophistication that appealed to a variety of people, making him a media sensation in a matter of weeks after his show began two years previously.

"I'm trying to figure that out for myself," Tintin responded. "Give me a moment; I need to write some of this down while it's still in my head. Why don't you collect our coats from the front? I'll meet you there."

Haddock did as he was told, grumbling under his breath about taking orders from bossy ginger writers. Carrying his own coat and Tintin's trenchcoat, he made sure his rum was still in his bag and vowed to consume it on the train ride home.

Exiting out the front of the theatre, he stopped in his tracks. The dimmed marquee across the street read "The Melpomene."

Oh. _Oh_. That made sense, now. He quickly forgot about his rum and Michael Archer, at least for the time being. He was very eager to see what Tintin thought of all this.

Sure enough, Tintin also took notice of the theatre. "Well, that fills in some blanks," the redheaded reporter said, blinking.

"A few," Haddock agreed, nodding, "but not all."

"Let's look at what we know," Tintin went on, taking his coat from Haddock's arms but not putting it on. He was much too excited for that.

They walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, Snowy sitting quietly at their feet. Tintin pulled out his notebook. "The girl's name is Irene, and I think her father owns the theater. The Melpomene, I mean," he started, turning the page. "And he sent her to spy over here because he thinks that they're selling property off to get out of the business."

"That's good for them, isn't it?" the Captain interjected. "It means less competition."

"Yes, but I guess her father also has another theory, one she wouldn't tell her boyfriend," Tintin continued.

"Denny."

"Yes, that's his name, Denny," Tintin said, scribbling something else down. "But anyway, that's not what we came for. We're here for the gang and their involvement in-"

Haddock raised an eyebrow. "Wait a moment, Tintin," he interrupted. "You're telling me that you're not a little bit intrigued by what's going on between these two theatres? They obviously have some sort of history."

Tintin shrugged. "Of course I am," he said with a smile. "But we must pick our battles, Captain, and I'm much more interested in the "operation" Denny spoke of. Their involvement with the gang. It seems as if they're doing some dirty work for the stagehands, to earn some extra cash and get props and set pieces."

"The girl didn't seem happy about it."

"No, she didn't," Tintin agreed. "But I'm not sure we should trust everything she says."

"You noticed it too?" the Captain asked.

"What?"

"That there's something a bit off about her?" Haddock pointed out.

Tintin chewed on the back of his pen, considering this. "Yes, there is. I'm not sure what, though. For one thing, she lied to us, so that's one thing against her."

"So where do we go from here?" Haddock asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He hoped that he could go home for the evening, as his curiosity was satisfied for the time being.

"We do more research," Tintin explained. "Wait! The dinner…"

Tintin suddenly left the bench and crossed the street, stopping in front of the doors to the Melpomene. Snowy tilted his head, wondering where his master was going. The boy crossed his arms as he read something, then straightened as he yanked it off the door and crossed back to Haddock.

He showed him a flyer. "The Melpomene Theatre requests your presence at an open dinner for all interested benefactors…" The Captain read aloud. "Wait a minute, Tintin, this dinner starts in two hours! You're not possibly expecting that we… Blistering barnacles, Tintin, research should be done in a library! Not in a stuffy dinner with those… theatre people," Haddock said, saying the words "theatre people" as if they were synonymous with "black plague."

"Well, you don't have to go, Captain, but I'm going," Tintin said, knowing full well that the Captain would join him.

He was right, of course. Tintin had a horrible habit of being right about most things, and this circumstance was not any different.

* * *

><p>AN: More plot than feelings and angst this chapter, but I promise they'll return once we get into the swing of things again. Thanks for patiently waiting for an update! Please review- I read every single one!


	7. In which Haddock shakes a hand

6. In which Haddock shakes a hand

The Captain fought to hold back a chuckle as he watched Tintin scratch his nose. The young man shook his entire head, rubbing his nose against his finger. He obviously hadn't seen his older friend watching, or he probably would have been subtler about it.

Haddock watched him from the hallway, a wistful half-smile gracing his worn face. Though he often acted the part of a grown man, Tintin was still a child in so many ways, and part of the Captain hoped that he would never lose those innocent qualities. He had a vested interest in the lad, and while he was intrigued and excited to see how this bright teenage boy would grow into an even more brilliant young man, he knew that so many of Tintin's values and morals came from his ability to see the good in people. He hoped that Tintin wouldn't adopt the cynical skepticism so many men encountered as they aged, that the inevitable realization of the evil deeds people were capable of didn't change the journalist's optimistic outlook on life and people.

Tintin had a way of changing his habits when he knew he was being observed. It was in the way he stood a little taller and stiller in the presence of other people, holding his electric energy captive inside so that it didn't overwhelm him. It reminded Haddock of an article he'd recently read on an idea called the Hawthorne effect, which reasoned that the subjects of experimental studies acted differently because they knew they were being analyzed and observed. As he yanked one of his jacket sleeves to pull it into place, he wondered if Tintin had read the article and whether he thought the theory had any merit. He made a mental note to discuss it with him later.

They were back at Tintin's flat, getting ready for the dreadful fancy dinner-gathering of theatre people. Tintin had changed into a brown corduroy three-piece suit and yellow tie, but the Captain had regrettably left his wardrobe at home. He wouldn't have changed anyway (after all, he didn't want to make those theatre people think that he was actually interested) but Tintin didn't need to know that.

Tintin scrunched his nose and spun around to look at Haddock. "Oh, Captain!" he gasped, red creeping into his cheeks. "I didn't see you there. I thought you were listening to your radio show?"

Haddock chose to ignore Tintin's embarrassment. The lad looked as if he'd just been caught in a broom closet with a half undressed young lady. That thought alone was comical enough, so the Captain found himself chuckling. "It was cancelled because the host—that funny Archer fellow—he's ill, they just said. Just my luck. And now I've no excuse to avoid this... Whatever it is," he grumbled, finishing off with a grand old sigh to punctuate his annoyance.

The young reporter grinned and playfully smacked Haddock's arm as he walked to the door. "You didn't have an excuse to begin with, Captain. C'mon, Snowy!" Tintin whistled for his dog, leaning down to pet him.

"Of course I did," the Captain countered.

Tintin rose to his feet and shut off the lights. "Well, then, let's hear it!"

Haddock followed Tintin through the door and down the stairs. "I was supposed to be so captivated by the book the guest was talking about that I would be otherwise detained until I read it myself."

"But the bookstores are closed!" Tintin exclaimed, sketching a wave to Mrs. Finch at her reading perch by the door as they walked out of the building.

"Blistering barnacles, Tintin, don't you think I know that? I bought it yesterday in Marlinspike! It's in my bag." _With the rum_... Haddock thought wistfully.

His friend let out a full laugh, throwing his head back as his smile reached his eyes. "You pack excuses, Captain, but not formal wear? And here I was convinced you thought of everything!"

Tintin took off running down the sidewalk, Snowy at his heels. The Captain followed, shouting, "Get back here you ginger devil! You can't run forever!"

But neither one of them could hear his string of continuous insults over their raucous laughter, echoing through the streets.

This, Haddock realized, was why he did it. Who knew that he'd find so much happiness here of all places, chasing around this young reporter through a busy street?

* * *

><p>This was <em>not<em> happiness, nor anything of the type. About five seconds after walking into the door of the theatre's lobby, Haddock wanted to run out and find _his_ brand of happiness—the kind he usually found in the sticky amber liquid at the bottom of a glass alcohol bottle.

For one thing, he was underdressed. The Captain's favorite pair of black trousers and cozy blue jersey were respectable, but not exactly appropriate for any kind of high society gala.

Or whatever this was. After all, he knew his way around cocktail hour… just as he knew that most women of a certain class _usually_ wore slips under their dresses. He'd had the unfortunate mistiming of bending to tie his shoe and looking up at just the wrong moment. The view was a horrifying mixture of lace and pink silk that he desperately wished to forget.

And now they were finishing up dinner, where Haddock had long since abandoned his attempts at stabbing his brick of a pork chop with his fork and dull knife in favor of chiseling pieces off and pushing them around his plate. He'd briefly glanced over at Tintin at one point, only to see that the boy seemed to have no troubles with _his_ meal.

The worst part was that his knife wasn't as dull as the conversation.

"Oh, no one's as good at adlibbing as Franck, back when he was on stage!" a thin-faced woman trilled, her voice simply too annoying for the Captain to ignore.

Another lady chimed in. "Remember the play with the court scene? It was called…." Haddock missed the play's title, getting too distracted by the fact that the woman's eye makeup resembled a raw turnip. He'd be seeing purple for a long time after glancing at her.

"How could we forget?" said a man, his bass voice booming from the other end of the table. The Captain leaned over to take a good look at the speaker, and was surprised to find a tiny man so short that he could barely see over the table.

Haddock blinked, having a feeling that the group would tell the story anyway.

"Franck was the lawyer," one woman started. "And right of the middle of the climactic court scene—"

The another lady cut in. "—the judge's gavel, the prop… It wasn't very well made, you see."

Honestly, couldn't theatre talk about anything other than themselves? He'd been forced to listen about costume malfunctions and set construction accidents all night. What would these people talk about if everything went exactly as expected? Or would they pick at that, too?

It was enough to drive him crazy.

"And the top popped right off."

"Pop!" Of course, that was the excessively shrill lady. Haddock wondered if they planned to tell the story that way, just so that she could put her natural skill of annoying people to good use.

"Instead of being put off by the distraction, Franck stopped and he said—"

"I'm sorry your honor, I won't do it again!" a different voice finished for them cheerfully, full of a sort of fond weariness.

But instead of roaring with laughter like the rest of their table, Tintin and the Captain both turned to look at the gentleman who had spoken, and realized that this must be the man the group was discussing.

He was tall, with rich dark hair and eyes that seemed creased at the edges as though he were perpetually smiling. Haddock noticed that he seemed a bit irritated at the way the people sitting at their table were acting, and appreciated his knowing gaze. The man made his way around to Tintin and Haddock, ignoring the still giggling guests surrounding them.

"If you wouldn't mind," he said politely to both of them, "can I steal you for a private conversation?"

* * *

><p>The man—Franck, the Captain assumed—led them back into the lobby and into an office. "Please, sit down," he said, motioning to two worn leather chairs.<p>

The smile slid off of his face immediately. This man had been an actor—evidently a good one. His public and private personas differed greatly.

Haddock settled himself in, feeling comfortable for the first time all night. Maybe all theatre people weren't bad; this Franck man seemed to be polite enough. Snowy sat at Tintin's feet, looking as though he might doze off at any second. Haddock didn't blame him in the slightest.

"Mr. Franck Étienne, I presume?" Tintin asked, offering his hand in greeting.

"Yes…" Étienne confirmed, tilting his head in confusion. He still shook Tintin's hand, if tentatively.

Tintin chuckled. "I saw your name on the door on the way in," he explained.

"Oh." Étienne seemed to stifle a nervous laugh.

Seeing the man's hesitation, Haddock introduced himself. "Captain Archibald Haddock. I apologize for my attire, but you see, this isn't exactly where I'd expected to find myself this evening." He shook Étienne's hand, noting a bit of a twitch in the man's fingertips.

It was enough to make the Captain's suspicion rival his curiosity, his sudden comfort at leaving the dinner gone in an instant.

"Well," Étienne went on warmly, "the theatre is not for everyone. That's why we're doing so poorly."

"This is your theatre, then?" Haddock asked, craning his neck to see the sign on the door.

"Yes. And I have to say, while I welcome any attendance at these fundraiser events, I was rather unnerved to see you," Étienne told them.

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Étienne crossed his arms and sat on his desk. With his head bent just so, the Captain could see that Étienne was balding in the back. He was suddenly grateful for his own head of thick black hair.

"I read the newspapers, Mr. Tintin. I know that wherever you go, there's often some sort of trouble. I know I make my living in the theatre business, but I like to keep the drama on the stage, if you'll forgive the cliché," Étienne explained.

Haddock did _not_ want to forgive the cliché, but continued being engaged in the conversation anyway.

"I _am_ a journalist, Mr. Étienne," Tintin replied curtly. The Captain wouldn't have been so polite. "I find a story and I follow it. That's my job."

Étienne closed his eyes in frustration. "Yes, but I don't understand why you would need to follow your story _here_. There's absolutely nothing going on here. Unless you'd like to report on a dying theatre's last attempts at life."

The Captain was starting to have enough of Étienne's dramatic flair. "Then why have a fundraiser?" he inquired.

"Can't hurt," the proprietor said, his head hung low.

Tintin stroked his chin, thinking deeply. "But the Radieux is going out of business across the street, yes? That should help your income. Eliminate the competition."

Étienne's head snapped up. Snowy growled a bit at their feet at the sudden movement.

"You've done your research, kid. I'll give you that. But why the sudden interest in theatre? Surely you're not thinking of becoming a playwright?"

"No," Tintin stated simply. "I _am_ interested in robberies, though. A string of them."

"And how has that led you here?" Étienne inquired. Haddock noted that he seemed to have lots of tension in his shoulders.

"Tell me, Mr. Étienne… Have you had a good look at your workshop lately? Where you store your props and sets?" the redhead asked, his face hiding his true suspicion rather well.

"Can't say I have. I deal mainly with the business side of things these days. I have stagehands for that work," Étienne responded plainly.

"So you'd have no idea if there was a sudden new supply of these things?" Haddock asked. Time to get down to business. Too much discussion, not enough answered questions. "No new furniture or artwork?"

"No!" Étienne exclaimed. "I barely have money to pay for the necessities, let alone the—wait a minute…" The man paused, the realization of their silent accusation finally dawning on him. "Are you implying that the stolen goods are in my theatre? _My _theatre?" he roared, getting louder every word.

"Of course not. We just wanted to know if it was possible," Tintin explained innocently, folding his arms.

"You can look at the books. No black market purchases. Nothing. We're barely filling seats," Étienne said, falling into his chair. He looked rather drained.

Tintin asked, "How do you know that your records haven't been tampered with?"

Étienne perked up, and they saw his first almost-smile since his act in front of his guests. "My son does the books. My Michel. He's as honest as they come. He'd never make a mistake. I'll introduce you."

This man had many different facets to his personality, Haddock decided. The charming theatre man, the doting father… He just wondered—and knew that Tintin agreed—if there was another part to the man: the defensive criminal.

"You have a daughter too, don't you?" Tintin continued on.

Étienne tilted his head again. "Where are you getting your information? Yes, I have a daughter. Irene."

"And she doesn't have anything do to with… the books?" Haddock asked dryly. They really weren't getting anywhere with this, and if he was expected to sit through another one of Tintin's interrogations, he really wished that he could have a drink. The wine at dinner just didn't do it for him.

"No," Étienne snorted. "She's too busy running around with the stagehands. Especially that Denis, but he's an all right fellow. He and Michel were as thick as thieves, at least before he… Anyway, Irene's a teenage girl. I can't blame her for wanting to have a good time. I did the same at her age."

He gave Tintin a look, as if to say, _You should, too. Instead of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong._ Haddock didn't like the way Étienne was looking at Tintin, and unconsciously leaned in protectively towards the boy.

"You didn't answer my question," Étienne said darkly." Where are you getting your information?"

Tintin shrugged. "Around. I have eyes. And ears."

Étienne leaned in. "There's more than that, but you're not going to tell me, are you?"

The Captain laughed smartly. Finally, a question he could answer. "Not a chance."

* * *

><p><em>I'm allowed to pick on theatre people because I am a theatre person.<br>_

_This story has some interesting twists and turns later on, so I've had to rewrite some parts to make everything work together, which is why there's the occasional lapse in updates. _There won't be many more slow chapters like this, so fasten your seatbelts, kiddies. Things are going to pick up soon, and then you'll be begging me a break. (And Captain Haddock will wish that he'd stayed at dinner with the yappy theatre people. Or not.) _  
><em>

_Next is another interlude- should be up soon.  
><em>

_I appreciate all of the feedback I've gotten for this story. Thank you everyone who has taken an interest in this story- I love seeing all of those favorites, reviews, and alerts. Keep those reviews coming- I just can't get enough of 'em. _I'm going to get better at replying to reviews, honest! _Please? If you read this story, I'd love to hear from you.  
><em>


	8. Interlude: The Moon

Interlude 2: The Moon

He had listened to Baxter on the phone, and it was like hearing every other word of a story; he got the general idea, but not the full picture. To be honest, deep down inside he knew that the distant shot he'd heard had been meant for his young friend, but it wasn't until he heard Baxter say the words "hurt," "unconscious," "sickbay," and "doctor" that he let himself believe that the bullet had actually hit its target.

The Captain now fully understood the odd heavy feeling that had been in the bottom of his stomach since this whole moon mess began—it was dread. Because something bad was going to happen, he just knew it. Tintin was hopeful and optimistic enough to trust that everything would go as planned, that everything would work out.

But Captain Haddock knew the truth. There were too many risks involved with this particular adventure. Too much that could go wrong. Too many variables that they just couldn't predict.

He'd never wanted to be proven wrong before.

They ran. Or maybe they floated, he didn't really know or care. Either way, Haddock felt his legs moving faster than his brain. They propelled him forward with an unconscious energy he couldn't control but was very grateful for, as if his fear was taking a physical form and actually pushing him from behind.

Tintin was hurt. He didn't know how badly, but he had been hurt. And so they ran to sickbay, the Captain navigating hallways he didn't really know with Wolff and Baxter just behind him.

By some off chance, they'd beaten the doctor to sickbay, where Haddock arrived to see a blur of nurses push a gurney into a room. He followed them in, and made out the outline of his best friend lying entirely too still in between the various bodies crowded around him.

"What—blistering blue barnacles, what's happened to him? What did they… Those turncoats! Peashooters! Lackadaisies!" he demanded, his sea-calloused hands forming tight fists at his sides.

One poor nurse stepped back from Tintin's head, obviously not used to dealing with such forcefulness. It was only when she moved that Haddock saw that she was holding some kind of gauzy towel covered in blood against a wound.

"His head," the nervous woman said cautiously, fearful of setting him off.

The Captain sighed with anxious impatience, rushing forward to Tintin's side. "Thundering typhoons, I can see that." He dropped to his knees next to the boy, ignoring the slight pain as he made contact with the floor. He'd seen Tintin unconscious many times before (the boy had a talent for head injuries, it seemed), but he'd never seen so much blood.

Tintin was _so _still. The boy was such a reactive person by nature, responding to every word and action around him. To see him so listless, so far removed from his world… This was truly unsettling.

"It doesn't look like your average pistol whipping," Baxter commented, and as helpful as the man had been, Haddock wished that he'd kindly stop talking. He was already on edge; what he wouldn't give for a whisky right now, if Tintin didn't need him…

And "average pistol whipping?" How many head injuries had Baxter seen? Not nearly as many as Haddock had seen in his time knowing Tintin, that was for sure.

"That's because it wasn't," Haddock explained with some hesitation, not quite wanting to believe his own words. "I told you I had heard a shot." Did people even bother to listen when he spoke?

Tintin listened. Tintin _always_ listened.

Baxter was alarmed both in looks and in voice. "You don't mean to say that those bastards… They shot him? They shot him _in the head_?"

"I wasn't there," Haddock snapped. "How would I possibly know? All I know is that the doctor is taking his grand old time getting here." His head _ached_, the combination of his own recent injury making things worse.

If Tintin had been shot in the head, then there was a chance he might die, or that he might wake up with no recollection of himself. Either way, there was a risk that Tintin—Haddock's Tintin—would be gone forever. And that was simply unacceptable. He wasn't going to think about that, there was no way that something like this would kill Tintin. It just wasn't going to happen, not on his watch.

There was no possible way that he had failed to keep him safe—not this badly. Not like this.

No.

He felt himself take a deep shuddering breath, eyes fixed on the motionless boy in front of him. Haddock suddenly felt some need from within to touch Tintin, feel that he was still there. He settled for resting a hand on Tintin's arm. Somehow, just that slight physical contact made him feel better. He bowed his head, his jaw trembling.

"Can… Can Captain Haddock have a moment alone with Tintin?" Baxter asked quietly, and looking back, the Captain realized that the man was much smarter than he gave him credit for. He was too overwhelmed by the situation to appreciate Baxter's intuitiveness, and later, especially after the debacle with the chair, he'd take him aside and thank him for his kindness.

The scared nurse just nodded, letting Haddock take over. He found himself alone in the room, gently holding the bloody towel to Tintin's head with a shaking hand in an attempt to slow the bleeding. Instantly, he felt at a loss—frightened by what he couldn't control, an invisible force he couldn't fight.

He sniffled, holding back tears. "That's a lot of blood, laddie," he whispered, choking on his words as he tried not to sob. But the boy reporter showed no indication that he had heard him, remaining pale and still. No reaction to the cloth pressed to his head… He was going to be in an awful lot of pain when he woke up. Yes, A dreadful headache. There _would _be a when, after all. Not an if.

The Captain swallowed and tightened his hand on the rag, trying not to think of what these precious few seconds meant. He breathed slowly, in and out, hot tears finally running down his cheeks. _He might die… He might be gone, soon… This might be the last time I see him alive… _

He wasn't embarrassed by his tears. No one could ever say that Archibald Haddock was a heartless bastard. This boy meant more to him than anyone ever knew. He was a passionate, emotional man, and he didn't mind if anyone saw it—as long as Tintin needed him.

What was he supposed to say? _I'm so glad you came barging into my life, because I've never felt so alive in my life. The thought of you being hurt makes me physically ill. I might complain about all these 'adventures' you take me on, but that's because I'm worried you might not come back from one of them. I'll always go with you if it means that you'll be safe._

His breath hitched, as he focused on what he really wanted to say. _You're my best friend, and I can't imagine life without you._

No. No, no, no. Tintin wasn't dying. He couldn't die. Not now, not anytime soon. There would be plenty of time for goodbyes, but it simply wasn't necessary right now because Tintin _wasn't_ dying.

Feeling entirely too melodramatic, Haddock wiped his face with his free hand and settled on a quiet demand. "You'd best not be leaving me, boy. Think of the moon. Of your writing. Of your dog, of your Snowy." And then, when the tears stared up again, he sobbed, "Of _me_."

There, he said it.

"You wake up, Tintin. You wake up, and you tell me to stop fussing," he added.

He heard the doctor come in behind him. "_Please_." the Captain begged one more time, low enough that no one could hear.

And with that, he let the doctor take control of the situation, taking the bloody rag and gently placing Tintin's limp hand back on the gurney next to him. _So still_.

They spent hours waiting outside. _Hours_. At one point, Calculus came in and sat next to him, and Haddock was grateful for his presence. It was comforting to have someone else who understood, who cared just as much for Tintin. Calculus had been horrified and guilt ridden by the whole situation, blaming himself for getting Tintin involved. He mumbled and rambled and cried, fiddling with his glasses as he begged some unseen deity (or maybe it was Haddock, it was hard to understand) for forgiveness.

He'd had about five seconds of his friend's self-pitying before he exploded, his eyes red-rimmed and face hot with fury. "Listen to me, Cuthbert!" he'd hollered, and Calculus had immediately jumped in the air a bit upon hearing his shrill anger. "This is _not_ your fault. Did you shoot Tintin?"

Calculus swallowed, looking as devastated as Haddock had ever seen. "No, but-"

"Did you by any chance leave a gun where those ectoplasmic technocrats could find it?"

Again, Calculus shook his head. "No, but you see—"

"But nothing, Calculus!" the Captain exclaimed angrily, interrupting. "You've done nothing wrong." And to make sure that he'd actually heard, Haddock made him repeat it again, because even with the ear trumpet he'd been using lately, he seemed to have… selective hearing, to say the least. Particularly when he was being told something he didn't want to hear.

Though Calculus repeated it back, Haddock didn't buy it. Because he felt guilty, too.

They loved Tintin. They cared for him. But they couldn't protect him.

The doctor finally came out to tell them what was going on hours later, after Tintin had fully regained consciousness. Cuthbert had gone to bed, but only after he made them all promise to immediately wake him if something went wrong.

Nothing had, fortunately. The injury hadn't been as serious as it looked. Tintin spent a few tedious weeks recovering, annoyed at himself for being in pain and at his friends for making him admit that he was in pain. But he was alive and whole, and for that, his friends were grateful.

The Captain purposely hadn't told Tintin much about that first awful night, just because he knew that he'd reveal a little too much about himself if he did. He'd been awfully concerned in Tintin's presence, he figured, and it wouldn't do any good to tell him how worried he'd been out of it. Tintin knew he cared, and he certainly wasn't going to waste needless words reminding him so.

But it haunted him. He kept seeing Tintin unconscious and bleeding over and over in his head. Haddock didn't let Tintin out of his sight again, the bandage around his head an ever present reminder: _You weren't there to protect him._

Then again, was there really a way to choose which thoughts and memories resonated the most?

_If only_, Haddock thought, and then proceeded to wonder if Calculus could come up with a cure for _that_ kind of infliction.

He rather doubted it.

* * *

><p>Time passed by in a haze, but eventually all of the dreadful moon business was done and over with. They'd all had numerous close calls along the way, and the Captain himself had nearly died because of all the shock on the trip home.<p>

He certainly felt fine. Maybe a bit tired, but wasn't everyone after a long trip?

Haddock remembered waking up on the stretcher to see Tintin's pale and relieved face, insisting he was fine, and then tripping over his own stretcher. Feeling foolish, the Captain immediately stood up and brushed himself off, only to be guided by some medical-type fellow to another waiting stretcher in an ambulance.

"I'm fine!" he insisted loudly, pushing himself up into the waiting vehicle. "Where's that whisky I was promised? I must have some whiskey!"

They didn't fuss with him then, leaving him be as they let him sit down. As they drove back to the base, he realized that someone was missing. "Where's Tintin?" he asked.

"In the other ambulance, sir," a paramedic told him while slapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. "Your blood pressure is a bit—"

"—well, of course!" Haddock interrupted. "I'm very agitated right now, and understandably!" he exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"We're just making sure everyone's okay, Captain Haddock, sir," the paramedic reassured him with a hesitant but gentle pat on the shoulder. "You've all had quite a fright. Especially you, sir. You all took an awfully long time to recover consciousness, and for a while there, things didn't look so… Well, we're just making sure that everyone's ship shape."

The Captain let that pacify him for the time being, but he still wasn't thrilled about it. But before he could protest more, he felt someone prick his wrist. "Hey, listen here, you anachronic harlequin! What's the big idea?"

"Just getting some fluids in you, sir," a young lady told him. "Nothing to worry about."

"Then… Why am I so… tired?" he trailed off, feeling a foreign and unwanted weight pushing him down on the stretcher.

* * *

><p>He woke up in a bed at the Syldavian base, a heart monitor steadily beeping at his side and a nurse taking his blood pressure. He felt groggy and disoriented, and as awareness came back to him, he felt like something was missing.<p>

Haddock pushed himself up, grateful that the comfortable pajamas he was wearing didn't get in the way. "Where's Tintin?" he inquired, surprised by the calmness of his own voice.

The nurse was an older woman with a kind but serious face. "In another room. He's very anxious to make sure you're all right. Normally, we'd hesitate a bit in releasing you without more monitoring, but in light of the situation…. Well, you seem to have bounced back from the little episode you had. That's fortunate," she answered. "Tests came back all clear. You should be good to go."

Haddock let her unpin the various wires hanging off of him before swinging his legs off of the bed and into some waiting slippers. "Is he all right?"

She helped him slide into a soft blue dressing gown. Its warm comfort made him miss Marlinspike that much more.

"He's had a rough go of it," the nurse told him gently, "but he'll be better once he sees that you're awake." She didn't smile.

Haddock tied the belt and let out the breath he'd been holding in. "But I saw him," he insisted, grabbing the woman by the shoulders. "He was fine." He let his arms drop. "Wasn't he?" he added quietly, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The nurse didn't seem phased a bit. "He's exhausted, Captain Haddock, but he won't let himself fall asleep. We can't calm his body down."

He stroked his beard in distress. "Thundering typhoons, can't you just knock him out like you did with me?"

She didn't even blink, but she looked at him with some pity as she started to lead him down the hallway. "His body seems to think that he's still in danger, and it's compensating. We can't sedate him right now because his heart is racing and he's hyperventilating. When he's calmed down a bit, we can help him a bit more," she explained, finally stopping in front of a door. "That's where you come in," she added.

He walked in and was immediately stuck by the speed and irregularity of the heart monitor's beeping. Tintin was lying in the bed, Calculus sitting in a chair by his side. He had an oxygen mask on his face, more sweat dripping down the side of his face with every quick gasp of breath.

Haddock made his way to Tintin's side, giving the boy an encouraging look as he reached the bed. The boy pulled off the oxygen mask and gave him a weak smile. "Hello," Tintin said, the single word barely coming out on the edge of a breath.

"You're not going to listen to me if I tell you to put that thing back on, are you?" Haddock asked him wearily, glancing at a very worried looking Calculus. The professor was oddly silent, fear sketching out the lines on his face. Cuthbert could look so childlike sometimes, but not today. Not now.

Tintin didn't miss a beat, closing his eyes and giving the slightest shake of his head.

"How are you feeling, lad?" The Captain sat on the edge of the bed, taking Tintin's hand in his.

The redhead tried to take a deep breath before speaking, but couldn't. "Tired," he said slowly. "Dizzy. You're alright?"

"I'm fine, Tintin," Haddock reassured him, patting his hand. "I'm absolutely fine. You just worry on calming yourself down. This'll all be over soon."

Tintin attempted to catch his breath again. "Great snakes," he gasped, breath ragged. "I sure… I sure hope so." He slid the oxygen mask back on his face.

"Rest now. I'm right here," the Captain said gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Baxter popped in to check on them. The man looked tired (didn't everyone, though?) but seemed to be in good spirits when he saw that both Calculus and Tintin were fast asleep.<p>

Baxter waved Haddock to the hallway, not wanting to disturb their rest. The Captain gently set Tintin's limp hand down at his side before following him. "Is everything alright, Mr. Baxter?" he asked, hoping that this entire moon endeavor hadn't been for naught.

"If you ask me," the man told him, "he was desperately worried about you."

"Who, Calculus?" Haddock replied, raising an eyebrow. "But he's—"

"No, Captain—Tintin. We all thought the worst for a bit. It looked like… Well, it looked like you might not pull through. Tintin had only just regained consciousness himself—"

"It took that long?" Haddock panicked. "But why?"

Baxter took off his glasses and wiped a smudge off on his shirt. "He saved you all. When I found him in the control cabin, he was barely breathing. It was quite some time before he'd recovered enough to ask about you, and after that…"

Haddock froze, his face feeling very cold. "Then… This is all my fault."

"No," Baxter responded briskly. "It isn't. But if I were you, Captain Haddock, I'd stay close to him. He mightn't say it as boldly, but he worries about you."

"And?"

Baxter smiled. "Don't give him more things to worry about if you can help it."

As the man left him and he went back to Tintin's side, he only wished that they would stop giving each other reasons to worry.

He could try. He could try to get off the drink, to stop swearing, to keep his temper in check. And Tintin could try to stop getting himself wrapped up in danger and intrigue and adventures.

But then they wouldn't be true to themselves, would they?

It was at that moment that Captain Haddock realized that some day, he would lose this boy. Tintin was going to leave him, and there was nothing he could ever do to stop it. Maybe it was because he would finally be repulsed by the Captain's flaws and decided he just couldn't take it any more. Maybe he'd get caught in too deep in some adventure, and Haddock wouldn't be there to save him.

Sitting next to the bed, Haddock vowed to try and protect himself, because somehow—for some reason the couldn't fathom—the boy cared about him, and if having one less thing to worry about kept Tintin out of danger, then so be it. After all, Tintin was only so ill because of Haddock's own recklessness.

They needed to protect each other for as long as they could.

As he made himself comfortable and held Tintin's hand, he prayed that he'd never have to find out what would happen if they failed.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Reviews are gratefully appreciated! Please let me know what you think. We're going to be diving headfirst into the main plot soon, so I hope you're ready!_

_Thank you to everyone who has supported this story so far. I LOVE the responses I've been getting._


	9. In which Haddock tries to eat a cupcake

7. in which Haddock tries to eat a cupcake

Franck Étienne led them out of his office and into the lobby. Haddock didn't really care about the decor of the place because he wasn't interested in such things, but it was rather hard to miss the thick layer of gray dirt covering every inch of… everything.

Étienne saw Haddock's quick but noticeable reaction and commented, "We had to let the cleaning staff go, I'm afraid, and the boys backstage aren't very skilled at dusting."

Haddock snorted impolitely, and Tintin elbowed him. "Clearly," he mumbled under his breath, but Tintin still heard him and gave him a look nearly as dirty as the theatre.

"Wait here," Étienne told them, pausing in front of what once was a large grand staircase but was now a dilapidated mess. There were patches that were worn away, leaving frayed carpet and growing holes in areas that had seen heavier traffic.

It reminded the Captain of an old carpet-bag he once used as a sailor, but he'd discarded it when he came into money. By then, the handles had to be held a certain way or they'd fall off, and the tiny holes were patched with tape to make sure that nothing fell through. Similarity, the stairs didn't look sturdy enough to support much of anything, let alone the weight of a human.

Haddock leaned closer to Tintin and remarked, "Blistering barnacles, if that's the way they keep up their stairs, imagine how unsafe their sets must be. I wouldn't want to work here, that's for sure."

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. "Thinking of taking to the stage, Captain?"

"No, never!" The Captain protested loudly, turning and seeing people gradually filter their way out the front door. "It's not hard to see why no one's coming to the theatre—to _this _theatre, at least. It's a mess."

Étienne returned with three people. Two of them Haddock recognized—it was Irene and Denny (or Denis? Was that his full name?) from earlier in the day. One he didn't know, but he could only assume was Étienne's son.

"Ah, here we are," Étienne greeted them warmly. The hesitation and fear were gone, replaced by the smooth entertainer they'd gotten a glimpse of at dinner. He motioned to his daughter, who was dressed in a ratty green velvet dress with a neckline much too low for a girl her age. The hem was moth-eaten and the slash of bright pink lipstick on her lips was smeared on one of her teeth. "This is my daughter Irene."

She gave them a clumsy little curtsy, a smirk twisting her lips. "How'd you do?" she said sweetly, probably aware that her dress was too revealing and that she was bearing her sunburned breasts for the world to see.

"Um, I'm Tintin," the reporter told her, ignoring her show of skin and focusing on her face and not her chest.

_Not much to look at_, the Captain thought as he took in her cleavage and caked on make-up. He also thought it curious that she didn't even find it strange that Tintin didn't acknowledge their earlier meeting.

"This is my boyfriend, Denny," she explained proudly, threading her arm through his.

Denny smiled nervously, his lips moving as little as possible as he responded, "Nice to meet you. I've read all about you."

_He knows_, Haddock thought. _He knows Tintin saw her earlier, and he can't figure out why he hasn't mentioned it_.

"And this," Étienne cut in, ignoring them, "is Michel, my son."

"Mickey," the young man corrected them. "Call me Mickey." He offered his hand, and both Tintin and Haddock shook it. He had a quiet rasp to his voice, as if he'd either been talking for a very long time without a break, or hadn't spoken in ages. Haddock preoccupied himself for a moment trying to decide which, but quickly lost interest.

Tintin didn't waste any time in getting to the point. "Your father says that you're in charge of the finances. Would you mind if I take a look at your records? I'm working on a story, and I'd like some more information."

Mickey grimaced, and instantly appeared older. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks looked hollowed out. He looked a bit shorter than Étienne, but Haddock noticed that something seemed to be pulling his shoulders down, as if a large weight was yanking him towards the floor. Had he not been hunched over, he would be about the same height as his father.

"Yes," Mickey answered quietly, his eyes flashing up to his father and then his sister. "Of course." He'd obviously been prepared for Tintin's request, because he reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown leather accounting book tied up with string. "Here. I make two copies of everything."

Seeing that his son had the situation under control, Étienne nodded a goodbye to Tintin and the Captain and then left the lobby and returned to his guests, his clueless daughter and her boyfriend in tow.

"Convenient," Tintin muttered as he accepted the book. He had obviously intended for only the Captain to hear his comment, but Haddock was confused. Was Tintin referring to Étienne's exit, or to the duplicate copies of the theatre's financial records?

"Very," Mickey replied, and Tintin jumped a little, a bit startled by the other man's unforeseen insight.

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "I won't have it for too long," he explained. "I can have it back by tomorrow, if you—"

"Great!" Mickey interrupted, clapping the reporter on the shoulder and shoving him to the side as he walked away.

Haddock dusted off his friend's shoulders. "What a pathetic, picketing peacock…" he growled. "Acting like he owns the place."

Tintin snorted and sat on the bottom step. "Technically, Captain, he does." He quietly flipped through the pages of the theatre's records, scanning its contents.

"Not much to him, is there?" the Captain commented as he joined Tintin on the stairs.

Tintin considered this before shrugging. "I've only just met the man, and I don't plan on getting to know him much more."

"I meant that he looks sickly, that all," Haddock added, remembering the man's haggard appearance.

"Like I said," Tintin said as coldly as Haddock had ever heard him, "I don't plan on getting to know him."

Haddock frowned. "Alright, then. No need to be snappy, lad." He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. He looked up at the second level, and noticed bits of… _everything_ hanging about. He'd never seen such clutter, and he'd been a sailor for most of his life. "Ugh," he groaned. "What's that up there? Storage?"

Tintin shut the book and stood up, walking up a few steps to glance up at the second level. "Is that… furniture? Pieces of wood? Bags of clothing?" he listed, counting all the many knickknacks being stored in the lobby of the theatre itself. He turned back. "Where do they put all that when they have a show?"

The Captain snorted again. This place was becoming the punch line of a rather old, beaten-to-death joke for him. "Maybe they leave it here. This place is a mess. The lighting has been flickering all night, the fabric is threadbare, everything is falling apart… I'm no snob, Tintin, but this place could use some work if they actually want people to come here."

"You're right," Tintin said suddenly, putting a hand to his mouth in thought. "It isn't maintained at all," he went on, taking the hand away. "Then where does the money go?" He walked back down the stairs.

"The money? What money? I thought they didn't have any money!" Haddock answered.

Tintin was speaking quickly now, his hands opening the book Mickey had given them faster than his brain could connect to his mouth. "The money in the records." He flipped the pages, finding one, and slid his finger down to one entry. "Look at this!"

Haddock stood up to look at the book. He saw a line of numbers and letters and circles, and frankly, none of it made sense to him. "Numbers make my head spin, lad. Why don't you explain it to me?"

"There's money in accounts receivable, but it's never actually reconciled," Tintin exclaimed in awe, grinning ear to ear.

The Captain stared at him. "Excuse me? You're going to have to do better than that, Tintin, if you actually want me to understand what's going on here."

"Money goes out, and there's mention of things being sold and how much they were sold for, but the money isn't actually deposited! It isn't actually there!"

"Well, that's a stupid mistake," Haddock scoffed. "Wouldn't someone notice? I thought Mr. Theatre Owner here had full faith in his son. Did he look at the books? Even once? Anyone who can read could see that things don't add up."

Tintin smirked and looked up at him. "Really, anyone?" he teased. "That's not the point," he went on, ignoring Haddock's grumbled retort. "It's an obvious mistake that I think they wanted us to find."

"They _were_ a bit eager for you to see the books," Haddock conceded.

"I'll have to look at it a bit closer tonight," Tintin agreed.

The Captain tilted his head in confusion, changing the topic. "Where's that dog of yours gone off to?"

"Oh!" Tintin laughed again, walking back towards the dining room. "I left Snowy under the table in the dining room. He seemed hungry, and I noticed that the little old ladies keep dropping their food when they talk with their hands."

"Blistering barnacles, you're right!" Haddock laughed.

* * *

><p>They entered Tintin's apartment, a very full Snowy trailing behind them. He teetered over to his little dog bed and fell over, asleep before his little doggy body hit the bed.<p>

"Well, at least someone had an enjoyable night," Haddock sighed, tossing himself into his armchair. It was _his_ armchair, now— he'd been there long enough.

Tintin frowned. "It wasn't all _that _bad. We've got this, at least," he said, waving the book of the Melpomene's financial records.

"Eh, it's all gibberish to me, and I've no shame admitting it," the Captain insisted. "I don't know what you think you're going to find, lad, but it seems rather… anticlimactic, don't you think?"

The redhead sighed, and took a seat on the sofa adjacent from him. He smiled warmly. "My life isn't all chases and gunshots, I assure you."

"Things often end up that way," Haddock chuckled.

"Since when do you complain that life is boring, Captain?" Tintin asked, the smile leaving his face.

Haddock thought about that for a moment. As much as he liked to whine and complain about adventure and the messes Tintin got him in, his issue was less with the thick of the adventure itself and more with the danger it put him in—physically, and emotionally, if he was going to be honest. The fear of losing Tintin weighed heavy in such situations— and the fear of saving his own hide, if he was going to be honest. He wasn't a coward, but he knew when a situation wouldn't end well.

And then there was the selfishness Tintin was referring to right now— if he had to be willingly dragged along on this journey like always, couldn't the conflict at least be an enjoyable one? Theatres and accounting ledgers were nothing to him. He kept having the horrible feeling that this wouldn't end well, as boring as all of it was to him.

"I'm sorry, lad. I didn't mean anything by it," the Captain said softly.

Tintin smiled again, genuine kindness etched on his face. "I know, Captain. It's been a long night for all of us," he grinned, leaning over to stroke Snowy's sleeping form. He leaned back, opening the book of records. "Looks like you finally have time to read your book, Captain. By the time Archer talks about it on the radio, you'll be fully informed."

Haddock gave him a mischievous grin and reached into his bag, pulling out a tinfoil wrapped object. "Not right away. I'm otherwise engaged at the moment."

"What is that?" Tintin inquired, his curiosity getting the best of him as he looked over the book for a moment.

The Captain's smirk grew wider. "Dessert. I pinched it from the Étienne girl on our way out. The meat was inedible, but at least the sweets looked good. Do you like cupcakes?"

Tintin wrinkled up his nose and turned back to his reading. "Not really, actually."

"Who doesn't like cupcakes?" Haddock wondered, eyes large. Sometimes the boy could be terribly odd. He peeled back the foil, and realized that he didn't wrap it very neatly—icing and sprinkles were all over the place. He took it over to the kitchen, unwrapping it over the sink to keep the mess contained.

"I don't," Tintin answered.

Haddock couldn't resist teasing him, not for a moment. "Why? Did a cupcake try to kill you one time?"

Tintin was halfway amused, but didn't look up from the book. "No."

"Then why—"

"—I just don't like them."

"That's fine, I guess," the Captain sighed as he finished unwrapping the cupcake. "To each his own and all that."

The slippery cupcake had become too much for his sea-worn fingers, sliding right into the sink.

CRACK!

The next moment or so went up in a haze of frosting, sprinkles, and smoke. His disappointment at the loss of his tasty snack immediately warped into surprise in response to the tremendously jarring sound.

The Captain heard Tintin before he saw him, his vision full of biting gray smoke. "Great snakes, Captain, what was that?" Tintin rushed into the kitchen to see what had happened, a very-awake Snowy at his heels. "What's… Did something _explode_? Did a bomb go off?"

Haddock's face was covered in soot, and the smoke stung his eyes. "Blistering barnacles, I just dropped the cupcake in the sink, and then BOOM!"

"The _cupcake_ exploded?" Tintin exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

"Apparently!" Haddock hissed, wiping his eyes with his hand. _Ouch._

The reporter covered his eyes and shook his head. "Where'd you say you got it? The cupcake, I mean."

"That girl handed it to me. The daughter," the Captain answered with disdain.

"Irene? When?" Tintin asked, mouth agape.

The Captain walked away from the sink, not wanting to look at the mess of burnt sprinkles any more. "Just before we left, when you were collecting your dog. She thought I might like it for the trip home, she said. I should learn not to trust a girl who throws herself at men like that," he grumbled.

"Why would she give you an exploding cupcake?" Tintin asked. "At least you didn't get hurt. How did you manage that?"

"I had dropped it in the sink, and that's when it went off. I could have been killed! That loitering lackadaisy! She did this!" Haddock yelled, crossing his arms. He probably should have wiped his face by now, he thought, but he was too shaken by nearly being killed by a _cupcake_ of all things to think of much else.

Tintin let out a nervous laugh of relief, collapsing back against the wall and sliding down into a seated position. "You know, Captain," he said flatly, "I've never cared for cupcakes."

Haddock just blinked in response, joining his young friend on the ground. "Aye, Tintin," he replied, vocalizing a decision he had just made, "I don't believe I do either."

And they laughed together once more, though there was a tremor of uneasiness they just couldn't shake.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know, I know. It's been a while, don't yell. I didn't write a single thing the entire semester. I'm going to warn you guys right now: this semester is actually even crazier (I'm directing a show on top of everything else). Hopefully, it'll be less than four months before I update again. Thank you SO much for the feedback! I appreciate each and every review._

_(Quick trivia: I'd planned on doing the cupcake scene for ages, and just when I finished writing it, I was called downstairs... to find that my brother was offering me a cupcake. It was very good, and it did NOT explode, but I had to keep myself from laughing!)  
><em>

_Also, I find the spell check on terribly amusing. It's nice that "bias language" gets flagged (like the word "ladies"). I didn't realize that fanfiction was meant to be politically correct. And clich_é_-free. _


	10. in which Haddock is silently scolded

8.in which Haddock is silently scolded

On a whim, Haddock wandered over to the phone and dialed Tintin's number. He hadn't heard from the boy in days, and his action stemmed more from boredom than concern- the silence in his life had become a constant annoyance.

There was no answer, but he hadn't expected one. He shoved his hands in his pockets and returned to the dining room table, where he was currently taking a break from his correspondence. He had a study for such activities, but it just didn't suit him. Actually, Tintin used the study more than he did—maybe that's why it didn't quite feel like his space. Or maybe he was used to his old cabin on the Karaboujan, which was dining room, study, bedroom, and sitting room all in one. In many ways, he wasn't suited for a life on an expansive state. His life on the sea had groomed him into a private, warm, and simple man.

But he still dreamed. Just as he finished planning his triumphant return to the sea (he imagined a lavish captain's cabin. With a hot tub. And a refrigerator just for booze. And a private cinema.), the phone rang.

The Captain leapt to his feet, determined to reach the phone before Nestor. Inexplicably, he failed, even though he could have sworn He was closer to the phone than the butler.

"Marlinspike Hall," Nestor greeted in his usual polite and detached manner.

Haddock sighed, coming to a full stop behind him. "It's almost certainly for me, you idiot," he mumbled, knowing that Nestor would hear him.

Accordingly, Nestor handed him the phone. "It's Master Tintin for you, sir."

"I thought it might be," he answered dryly, then spoke into the phone. "It's about time, lad."

He felt the gentle rumble of laughter against his cheek. "I didn't get to the phone fast enough, sorry. But Captain," Tintin said excitedly, "you won't believe what I've discovered!"

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, he slapped the phone back into its cradle with little more information than when the conversation began but a promise to go into Brussels the next day to see Tintin. He sighed and returned to his perch at the dining room table, where he noticed that Nestor had placed his incoming mail. After opening the first two letters, he noticed a small but telling detail, obviously not overlooked by—<p>

"Nestor!" he shouted. "Nest—" he continued, just realizing that the butler was standing in front of him and that he had apparently been close by the first time he'd been called.

"Yes, sir?" Nestor answered stiffly and dutifully, and if he didn't know his butler's mannerisms by now, Haddock would presume his tone as bored.

The Captain stroked his beard in curiosity. "Did you alphabetize my mail by the last name of the sender?"

Nestor didn't even blink. "Yes, sir. Would you prefer me to alphabetize them by the sender's first name? Or by their title? Or location?"

"Blistering barnacles! You don't need to waste your energy on that, Nestor!" Haddock insisted, sitting up in his chair and placing his hands on the table with a satisfying show of force.

The butler finally twitched. "Is there somewhere else my energy could be applied, sir?"

The Captain put his head in his hands. "No, Nestor. Why," he asked, not bothering to lift his head, "do you think you need help?" He neglected to mention that if Nestor had time to alphabetize the mail, he probably didn't need the help.

"Actually, sir, some additional assistance might be beneficial," Nestor admitted, and his employer's head snapped up in surprise.

"Really?" Haddock sputtered, awestruck. "Well, what do you have in mind?"

Nestor, cool and calm as always, just shrugged as he made his request. "A maid might be serviceable. To help with the cooking and cleaning. I could look into it, sir. With your permission," he said with a polite and respectful bow of the head.

Maybe if Nestor had someone to boss around, he wouldn't fret so much over the little details about the house. It wasn't that Haddock didn't like having someone take care of him or the things he cared about, but having someone constantly scrutinize his environment set him on edge.

"Yes, by all means, Nestor, hire whoever you like. You can even put them up in the house, if you think it'll help. We have all these empty rooms—we might as well fill one," the Captain decided.

"Very well, sir."

* * *

><p>She looked no older than fourteen, with ashy hair and ridiculously bright eyes so large that they seemed copied from a cartoon character. Her lips pouted in concentration as she chopped celery, and the spatter of tiny brown pinpoint freckles dusting her nose made her face seem even rounder.<p>

Also, she was standing at his kitchen counter.

"Who are you?" the Captain demanded, hands on hips.

The girl smiled warmly. "Caroline Egan. The new maid."

Ah, that made sense. He'd decided to take a short nap after giving Nestor permission to hire someone, but he hadn't expected Nestor to choose someone before he'd even woken up. Or someone so young.

"American, are you?" Haddock deduced, analyzing her accent. He leaned on the counter, popping a piece of celery in his mouth.

"Sort of," she answered, sliding the celery into a pot and moving onto the carrots. "Born there, lived there 'til I was ten."

"And then what happened?" he asked, trying to care but failing.

"My folks died, but my mother was French, so I moved to Calais to live with her sister. You know, the port town? Nestor said you were a man of the sea, so I thought—" she stopped, realizing that he wasn't responding, whether from lack of caring or knowledge. "Well, never mind," she went on with a cheery grin. "Anyway, you can see the cliffs of Dover there, which is neat. We lived above my Auntie Bernadette's dress shop, selling clothing to all sorts of interesting people coming off the ferry. So, one day, I was eating my lunch on the front steps of the shop, and this sweet, funny-looking boy comes up to ask me directions to the cinema. Well, Jimmy—his name is Jimmy—we've been together ever since. He's studying in London to be a doctor. It suits him—he's a kind person, even if he is a bit funny looking. He's awfully self-conscious about it, but I think it makes him even cuter. Well, anyway, Auntie wasn't very happy about us. Me and Jimmy, I mean. So we left Calais. He has to finish school, though, but he's only got a few more months 'til he's done. Then he's gong to come here to Marlinspike, and when the old doc—he's a family friend of Jimmy's dad—when the old doc retires, Jimmy's going to take over the family practice in town. Isn't that neat? Captain Haddock? Sir?"

That was more than Haddock had bargained for when he'd walked into the kitchen after his nap to see if dinner was ready. Clearly, Nestor knew something he didn't.

The Captain frowned. "Where did Nestor find you?" he asked, rude tone perfectly intentional.

The girl didn't take the hint. "The market. I just arrived from London a few days ago, and I was staying in a hotel while I looked for work and a place to stay. Nestor found me asking Madame Barteau for work at the produce stand. When she told me no—she only hires within the family, how was I supposed to know? —Nestor said that you needed a maid and that you could give me a room, so here I am! I can clean pretty well, and cook okay—I'm making an easy soup right now, but I'm hoping that you won't mind too much if I experiment a bit in the kitchen—and I'm a wonderful seamstress. I can make clothes, actually, so if there's anything you need mended, just let me know. Like this worn spot in your jersey," she said, rounding the corner and touching his elbow, "I can easily mend—"

"Nestor!" the Captain bellowed upon sight of her very round belly. "Nestor! Nestor, come here!"

And again, Nestor arrived before his name had been called twice. "Yes, sir? I see you've met—"

"Yes, well, I've met her alright. I'd even say we're well acquainted. She's just given me her life story, unabridged," Haddock declared, crossing his arms.

The girl clamped a hand on her head. "I've done it again, haven't I? I tend to talk a lot more than I should. I'm so very sorry, I am!"

"Again?" Haddock snorted. "At least the girl's consistent, Nestor."

"Eloquence isn't a sin, sir," Nestor said with as much warning as the Captain had ever heard in his voice. He dared to believe that his dutiful butler was almost _scolding_ him.

"A chatty kitchen wench isn't too hard to deal with," he conceded, "but what about _that_?" Haddock declared, motioning to her rather large and obviously pregnant stomach. "It seems that Miss Egan is in a rather delicate state."

She blushed. "Mrs. Egan," she corrected gently. "Jimmy and I have been married for nearly a year."

Haddock gaped. "Oh, that makes me feel better!" he roared, throwing his hands up. "Nestor, what possessed you to hire a pregnant maid?"

And pregnant she was—at least eight months along, if not more.

Mrs. Egan frowned. "I'm so sorry—I thought you knew, sir. I thought Nestor had already told you."

"Well, he did not," Haddock snapped, and the girl wilted like a dying flower.

Nestor leaned in close to his ear. "I was hoping to give the girl a place to stay, Master Haddock. She's been staying in a hotel. And if her husband is to be the new doctor in town, than I think we should cultivate this connection. Especially if Mister Tintin continues to get himself into trouble the way he does."

The Captain stepped back, considering this. It wasn't a permanent situation, after all. And the girl _did_ need a place to stay. And a job. And there really was no reason he shouldn't or couldn't provide these things.

"I'll just be grabbing my things, then," Mrs. Egan said, interrupting his thoughts. She made no attempt to hide her disappointment. "I hadn't even unpacked yet, so it won't take me but a minute."

"Well, hold on, now," he stopped her, grabbing her by her elbow. "This all sounds reasonable. And what will you do when the baby is born?"

She turned to face him, hope radiating from each freckle. "It won't be long now. I'm a few weeks 'til full term. Jimmy's going to come here right before the baby's born, then I'll take care of the baby myself for a few weeks until he graduates. Then he'll join me here, and we'll get a place in town. I won't be a bother, I promise!"

Haddock sighed again, slapping a hand to his head. "So you'll cook with a baby?"

"Yes, sir!" she said eagerly.

"Whatever floats your boat, Nestor," the Captain conceded. "But as long as she's your charge, she can stay.

Mrs. Egan's face lit up, her large eyes shining, and he felt that Nestor's blink of a response was slightly more enthusiastic than he'd ever seen.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I know. It's been an eon and a half since my last update. My bad. My excuse is colleg__e. I am sincerely sorry. :-)_


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